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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FRUIT   OF   WESTERN  LIFE; 


OR 


BLANCHE, 


OTHER     POEMS 


DAVID  REEVE  ARNELL. 


"  First  fruit  of  fancy  and  of  toil, 
Child  of  few  hours,  and  those  most  fugitive." 

WIFFEN'S  TASSO. 


NEW-YORK: 

J.  C.  RIKER,  129  FULTON-STREET. 
1847. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1847, 

BY   J.   C.   KIKKR, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of  New- York. 


PRINTED  BY  LEAVITT,  TROW  &  Co., 
33  Ann-street,  New- York. 


TO  WILLIAM  F.  COOPER,  ESQ. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  : 

A  desire,  (in  which  I  know  you  participate,)  that  I  should  be 
fairly  represented  especially  in  the  South  and  West,  has  induced 
me  to  collect  into  this  little  volume,  these  fugitive  Poems,  many 
of  which  have  already  appeared  under  my  name,  in  sundry  Mag 
azines  and  Newspapers  of  the  day.  I  have  no  other  apology 
to  offer  for  presenting  this  book  to  the  Public.  I  have  done 
it  in  sincerity,  as  the  very  best  thing  I  could  do  ;  and  though  I 
am  sensible  that  the  experience  of  a  longer  period  of  years  than 
make  up  my  life,  would  enable  me  to  attain  to  a  more  complete 
expression  of  the  truths  I  would  utter,  yet  I  could  not  bear  to 
let  these  little  songs  be  so  soon  forgotten;  and  in  giving 
them  to  the  Publisher,  I  feel,  likewise,  that  I  have  discharged 
a  debt  of  gratitude  to  those  friends  who  have  always  received 
them  kindly, — may  I  not  hope,  for  some  other  reason,  than 
merely  because  they  are  mine  ? 

I  have  only  to  add,  that  the  Tale  which  I  have  placed  in 
the  van,  is  simply  a  memento  of  very  early  years,  which  I  have 
still  the  heart  to  preserve,  by  reason  of  the  associations  with 
which  the  composition  of  it  is  connected.  The  shorter  Poems 


623853 


4  DEDICATION. 

must  speak  for  themselves.  It  has  been  a  desire  with  me,  for  a 
long  time,  that  I  might  be  able  to  contribute  something  that 
should,  at  least,  be  characterized  by  purity  of  sentiment,  and  I 
may  add,  by  earnestness  of  tendency,  to  the  Literature  of  the 
growing  West.  The  result  of  my  efforts,  thus  far,  are  the 
following  pages. 

To  you,  my  friend,  I  am  indebted  for  much  that  I  have 
done.  Your  confidence  in  me  has  never  wavered,  and  your 
word  of  "  courage"  has  never  failed.  I  feel  most  deeply  what 
I  am  now  doing; — and  in  dedicating  this  volume  to  you,  let 
me  beg  of  you  to  look  upon  the  act  (all  slight  as  it  may  seem 
to  the  world)  as  the  sincerest  heart-return  I  have  the  power 
to  bestow  ; — and  let  us  both  indulge  the  hope  that  no  feeling 
less  gentle  may  ever  spring  up  between  us,  than  that  which 
now  prompts  this  offering,  or  than  that  which,  I  know,  will 
induce  you  to  accept  it. 

Your  friend, 
Columbia,  Term.  D.  R.  ARNELL. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

BLANCHE  :  A  Tale  of  the  Heart,        .  .  i  •  <  ;-L'§ 

DREAMS,    .......  37 

MEDITATIONS  IN  THE  MAMMOTH  CAVE,  KENTUCKY,    .  .      42 

THE  STORM- SPIRIT,  .....  50 

GHOSTS,  .  .  .  .  .  .  .53 

THE  VOICE  OF  DATS,        .  ...  .  .  56 

THERE  ARE  MOMENTS  IN  LIFE,          .  .  .  .58 

ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ANDREW  JACKSON,  .        ;.--.*  r-'        60 

TIME,  .......      67 

SEEK  FLOWERS,    .  .  .  .  .  71 

I  WOULD  NOT  LEARN  FoRSETFULNESS,  .  .  .74 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  A  STORM,       .  .  .          . .  78 

To  A  STAR,    .  .  ...  .  .  .80 

SONNET. — DESPONDENCY,    .....  83 

SONNET. — FAITH,        .  .  .  .  .  .84 

NIGHT,      ...  •  •  .  85 

FAME,  .......      87 

ROOM  !  ROOM  !  .  ...  .  90 

ANGELS'  VISITS,  .  93 


6  CONTENTS. 

Page 
FAYRIE-LAND,         .  .  .  .  .  95 

THE  VOLUNTEERS'  RETURN,    .  .  .  .  .98 

THE  YOUNG  MOON  ON  THE  SKY  HAS  FLUNG,      .  .          100 

GOD  SEEN  FROM  THE  ROCK,   •.  - "•  i  •..  '' >       .  .  .  "  103 

I  NEVER  AM  SAD,  .....  105 

ALL  ABOUT  LOVE,      ......     108 

TWILIGHT,  ......          113 

THE  SILENT  MINISTRY,          .  ,  .  .  .116 

DEATH  OF  ALLEN,  .....          120 

THE  LONE  INDIAN,     .       '  .*'•'        ....     125 

THE  MONTAUK'S  Vow,      .....  129 

HYMN  TO  THE  WIND,  ,  132 

SONNET. — POETRY,  .....  135 

SONNET.— THE  POET.  .  .  .  .136 

THE  FULLER  LIFE,  .  137 

THE  CLOUD,    ....  .     142 

RURAL  HYMN,       ......  144 

To  AN  EVENING  CLOUD,         .....     146 

FLOWERS,  ........          149 

FADED  FLOWERS,        .......     152 

THE  WINDS,  ......        154 

THE  RAINBOW,  .  .  .  .  .  .160 

LINES  TO  S— ,     .  .  .  .  .  .        164 

"  PONDER  BOLDLY,"     .  .  .  .  .  .169 

THE  CLOSE  OF  SUMMER,     .  .  ...  .173 

SONNET.— THE  NEW  YEAR,   .  177 


CONTENTS.  7 

Pap, 
SONNET. — HUMILITY,  .....        178 

SONNET. — BIGOTRY,     .  .  .  .  .  .179 

CONRAD  AND  STELLA,          .....  180 

THE  DYING  POET  TO  HIS  WIFE,        ....  201 

THE  STARS,             ......  205 

FREE  TRANSLATION  :  Hor.  Lib.  iii.  C.  26,     .            .            .  207 

THREE  LIVING  LINKS,         .....  208 

THESE  LITTLE  SONGS,            .....  212 

SONNET. — L'ENVOI,             .                                                .  216 


POEMS. 

BLANCHE: 

A     TALE     OF    THE     HEART. 


Isa.    And  was  ehe  proud,  sir  ? 

Lord  I.  Or  I  had  not  lov'd  her. 

Isa,     Then  runs  my  lesson  wrong.     I  ever  read 

Pride  was  unlovely. 

Lord  I.  Dost  thou  prate  .... 

Of  books  ? 

LOUD   IVON   AND   HIS   DAUGHTER. 

PAET    I. 
I. 

A  THING  as  fair  as  summer  skies, 
With  golden  hair  and  sun-bright  eyes, 
And  heart  as  light  as  winds  that  play 
Across  the  heaven  of  some  blue  day, 
Was  Blanche,  when  first  we  met,  and  when 
Her  summers  only  number'd  ten  ;— 
2 


10  BLANCHE. 

And  I  of  scarcely  riper  years, 

And  these  most  strangely  fill'd  with  tears. 

For  I  had  been  the  loneliest  one 

Of  all  beneath  God's  blessed  sun  ; 

Orphan'd  of  parents  and  of  heart, 

In  common  things  I  took  no  part ; — 

They  said  I  was  a  wayward  boy, — 

I  know  I  chas'd  full  many  a  toy, 

I  know  my   hopes  flew  up  too  high, 

I  could  not  rest  beneath  the  sky ; — 

And  so  they  taunted  me, — but  still 

A  spirit  in  me  spurn'd  their  will ; 

For  me  their  lot  seem'd  all  too  low, 

I  mounted,  where  the  eagles  go, 

Beyond  the  sky,  and  dream'd  alone, 

Then  sank  to  earth  with  tear  and  groan. 

I  say,  the  dew  of  tender  youth 

Fell  on  a  heart  of  sad  unruth, 

And  when  I  found  a  human  love, 

I  set  it  on  a  throne  above, 

Gave  it  an  angel's  voice,  and  hung 

Enraptur'd  on  the  song  it  sung. 

Oh  !  she  was  wondrous,  wondrous  fair, 

As  day  and  sunlight  always  are, — 


BLANCHE.  11 

Men  almost  fear'd  to  see  that  child 
The  object  of  a  heart  so  wild  ; 
They  look'd  on  Blanche's  innocence, 
They  studied  my  own  look  intense — 
They're  doubly  damn'd  who  gave  her  soul 

« 

An  ofFring  to  their  fear's  control. — 

Hush  !  I've  no  power  to  chide  the  two 

From  whom  that  lovely  scion  grew — 

My  spirit  ill  their  kindness  sees, 

Dear  God  !  judge  Thou  'twixt  me  and  these. 

No  matter — I  have  borne  it  all ; 

We  meet  in  no  Earth  judgment-hall, — 

No  matter — I  have  strength  to  tell 

The  blight  that  o'er  my  spirit  fell ; 

For  time  has  had  no  power  to  set 

My  brow  in  changeless  sternness  yet, 

But  sometimes  still  a  ghost  is  wrought 

Upon  it  of  one  pleasant  thought, — 

The  thought  how  gayly  Blanche  and  I 

Once  sported  'neath  the  self-same  sky. 

ii. 

Ah !  well  I  lov'd  the  solitude, — 
Then  did  God's  handiwork  seem  "good ;" 


12  BLANCHE. 

And  still  unto  my  loving  gaze, 

It  yields  some  most  enchanting  rays. 

A  landscape,  drawn  'neath  summer  skies, 

Is  pleasant  to  my  heart  and  eyes  j 

Fair  is  the  rainbow, — sweet  the  moon 

Feeding  the  quiet  heart  of  June  ; 

The  clouds  are  often  wildly  bright, 

And  beauteous  is  the  sun's  last  light : 

And  ofltimes  yet  it  speaks  to  me 

In  wooing  accents,  eloquently  : — 

The  streamlets  have  a  quiet  voice, 

And  birds  and  breezes  cry  "  rejoice  ;" 

But  when  that  love  began  to  twine 

Its  tendrils  round  this  heart  of  mine, — 

When  first  I  felt  the  mystery 

That  my  proud  soul  no  more  was  free, — 

'Twas  passing  sweet,  and  yet  'twas  strange, 

To  sit,  and  muse  upon  the  change 

That  o'er  my  soul  had  come, — no  more 

It  lov'd  them  as  it  lov'd  before ; 

For  what  to  me  were  sun  and  sky 

When  not  reflected  in  her  eye  ? 

And  what  strange  wonder  might  a  stream 

Babble  out  in  its  moonlight  dream, 


BLANCHE.  13 

Did  she  not  in  her  beauty  sit 
Beside  me,  and  interpret  it  ? 
Oh  !  it  is  fearful  thus  to  bind 
Our  thoughts  to  one  of  human  kind. — 
I  drank  her  beauty  with  the  light ; 
Hers  were  the  dreamings  of  my  night ; 
I  deem'd  the  very  mountain  air 
Swung  from  her  curls  of  breezy  hair, 
For  me  God  bade  the  roses  sip 
Their  blessed  fragrance  from  her  lip — 
Her  laugh  was  in  the  voice  of  rills, 
Her  thought  upon  the  solemn  hills. 
She  was  my  life, — and  still  no  love 
I  know,  save  her,  and  One  above. 

III. 

As  goldenly  that  pleasant  time 
Flow'd  by  us  as  a  fairy  rhyme, 
I  knew  not  how  my  life  went  on, 
I  had  no  life  when  she  was  gone ; 
And  yet  I  never  breath'd  her  name ; 
Men  only  mark'd  my  brow  of  flame, 
And  all  who  saw  us,  tell-taies  were 
Of  feelings  close  'twixt  me  and  her. 


14  BLANCHE. 

Oh,  we  were  happy  ! — song  and  flowers 
The  links  were  of  those  precious  hours. 
At  morn,  beneath  the  whispering  trees 
We  sought  the  sweethearts  of  the  breeze  ; 
Our  pulses  play'd  a  richer  tune 
Beneath  the  golden  feel  of  noon  ; 
At  eve  we  watch'd  the  stars  on  high, 
Scarce  seen  beyond  the  twilight  sky, 
And  marvell'd  if  that  curtain  broad 
Were  the  white  shielding  wing  of  God. 
I  ask  not — can  ye  truly  tell 
Where  happier  ones  on  earth  may  dwell  ? — 
Have  ye  seen  spirits  from  the  sky  ? 
Were  they  more  blest  than  Blanche  and  I  ? 

i  v . 

Years  pass'd — I  watch'd  the  opening  flower,— 
More  fair  she  grew  each  passing  hour, 
Till  by  my  side  at  length  she  stood 
In  graceful,  beauteous  womanhood  ; 
And  on  her  brow  that  trace  of  thought 
Was  yet  more  spiritually  wrought, 
And  on  her  lip  a  prouder  curl 
Sat  sentinel,  than,  when  a  girl, 


BLANCHE.  15 

It  oft  press'd  mine,  and  thought  no  harm. 
She  grew  more  chary  of  the  charm, — 
We  met, — but  with  beseeching  eyes, 
And  fewer  questions  and  replies, 
And  in  my  heart  1  felt  a  strange, 
I  know  not  but  a  pleasing  change. 
I  thought  me  then  of  future  days, 
1  tried  my  fainting  hopes  to  raise ; — 
I  say  we  met,  but  oh  !  no  more 
We  met  like  children  as  before ; 
For  less  we  spake  of  outward  things, 
And  more  of  what  the  spirit  sings ; 
We  talk'd  of  common  acts  in  life, 
We  sometimes  spake  of  "  man  and  wife," 
And  idly  wonder'd  if  the  heart 
Beat  never  from  its  choice  apart. 
I  cannot  say  how  strove  my  will 
To  keep  all  dark  forebodings  still ; 
But  yet  I  feared — though  e'en  that  fear 
Had  something  in  it  strangely  dear, 
And  this  would  turn  to  sudden  joy, 
'And  I  would  be  again  a  boy, 
And  Blanche  my  joyous  playmate — then 
A  woman  she  would  seem  again, 


16  BLANCHE. 

A  woman — and  it  rack'd  me  sore, 

She  might  not  love  her  playmate  more  ; — 

I  knew  that  she  was  proud,  and  I 

Possess'd  a  soul  untam'd  and  high 

As  eagles,  that  refus'd  to  bow, — 

It  did  not  then — nor  doth  it  now. 

v. 

It  was  a  summer  evening's  close, 
The  spirit  that  shuts  up  the  rose, 
As  lulled  by  sweetness  had  forgot 
His  office,  and  each  fragrant  spot 
Was  breathing  still  its  odors  forth 
Upon  the  robes  of  air  and  earth, — 
And  there  were  gentle  breezes  blowing, 
And  streams  that  tinkled  in  their  flowing,- 
While  floating  where  the  Godhead  burns, 
The  stars  had  fill'd  their  quivering  urns, 
And  swung  them  through  the  vaulted  sky, 
Like  lamps,  deliriously  high, 
In  angels'  hands,  that  nightly  keep 
Their  sentry  o'er  the  world  asleep, — 
And  here  and  there  a  little  cloud 
Dipp'd  in  the  light  its  ghostlike  shroud, 


BLANCHE.  17 

Then  melted  in  the  yielding  blue, 

Like  some  fair  pinion  trembling  through ; — 

'Twas  all  so  bright,  below,  above, 

The  gladsome  earth  seem'd  ta'en  with  love, — 

And  like  a  child  whose  joy  is  high, 

It  danced  beneath  the  radiant  sky. — 

I  deem'd,  if  angels  ever  leant 

O'er  evening's  sapphire  battlement, 

I  deem'd,  if  e'er  their  footsteps  trod 

Elsewhere  than  the  bright  courts  of  God, 

They  had  been  lur'd  those  courts  to  leave 

For  earth,  upon  that  blessed  eve. 

VI. 

It  was  a  time  for  holy  vows 
Beneath  moon-interlaced  boughs ; 
It  were  not  strange  that  such  a  night 
Should  hear  full  many  a  heart's  troth-plight ; — 
And  in  that  wild,  enchanting  ray 
Two  lovers  sat,  and  one  as  day 
Was  beautiful,  and  both  were  young, 
And  love  was  faltering  on  their  tongue  ; 
Hopes  cherish'd  long,  yet  unexpress'd, 
Were  leaping  from  each  burning  breast ; 
2* 


18  BLANCHE. 

Her  robe  that  lightly  rose  and  fell, 

But  half  conceal'd  her  bosom's  swell. 

He  wander'd  o'er  that  matchless  face, 

Her  curls  shower'd  o'er  love's  dwelling  place  ; 

His  eye  drank  in  the  madd'ning  fire 

From  those  wave-crests  of  warm  desire, 

Then  fell  so  soft  that  whisper'd  word, 

Naught  save  the  trembling  spirit  heard  ; 

And  now  she  bent  her  angel  form, 

One  passionate  embrace,  and  warm, 

Was  wildly  given  ; — if  we  must, 

Whenever  we  return  to  dust, 

For  every  burning  moment  take 

An  age  of  torture, — what  shall  slake 

The  torment  of  that  soul  which  hath 

Seen  loving  ones  around  its  path, 

And  yielded  to  their  heavenly  charms, 

And  madly  sunk  into  their  arms  ? — 

They  pledg'd  their  love,  and  seal'd  the  vow ; — 

Pray,  reader,  can  you  tell  me  now, 

Who  were  the  lovers  ? — guess  again, — 

Ay,  guess  a  thousand  times  in  vain, — 

No  faery  sprite  bask'd  in  that  sky, — 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  'twas  Blanche  and  I ! 


BLANCHE.  19 


VII. 

I  cannot  tell  what  first  I  felt, 

When  as  I  worshipp'd  her,  and  knelt, 

In  holy  trance  before  her  shrine, 

One  heart  I  found  laid  next  to  mine 

Upon  that  solemn  altar  ;  I 

Must  pass  those  burning  moments  by. 

He  was  a  youth  of  quiet  mood, — 

Perhaps  my  life  was  all  too  rude  ; 

He  spake  to  her  of  gold  and  lands, 

My  heritage  was  honest  hands  ; 

But  still  'twas  difficult  to  let 

His  impress  in  that  heart  be  set, — 

'Twas  fearful  that  e'en  he  should  dare 

With  me  her  bounteous  love  to  share  ; 

(For  lx>unteous  though  love  be,  we  must 

Have  all  within  our  sacred  trust ;) 

And  though  he  might  have  meant  not  ill, 

The  heart  is  its  own  prophet  still, 

And  friends  that  would  be  friends  must  not 

Intrude  within  that  holy  spot ; — 

For  love  is  awful,  and  it  keeps 

A  watch  that  never  tires,  nor  sleeps, 


20  BLANCHE. 

And  springs  at  shadows. — Day  by  day, 
He  drew  my  better  thoughts  away, — 
I  found  it  difficult  to  smile 
While  he  was  smiting  me  the  while. — 
To  meet  him  kindly, — hotly  press 
Aught  that  had  burn'd  with  her  caress ; — 
I  loath'd  him, — though  I  show'd  no  sign 
Of  hatred  in  one  act  of  mine ; — 
I  heard  her  parents  praise  his  name, 
I  spake  no  withering  word  of  blame  : — 
Had  they  not  given  my  angel  birth, 
We  should  not  now  all  live  on  earth ; — 
I've  look'd  full  in  the  face  of  death 
For  far  less  slanderous  puffs  of  breath 
Than  they  sent  forth  to  blast  me  then. — 
I  will  pay  insult  back  again ; 
The  worm  must  mouth  my  rotting  cheek, 
Ere  I  will  bear  contempt,  nor  speak  ! 
But  they  were  safe — for  her  dear  sake 
My  soul  refus'd  its  thirst  to  slake ; — 
I  told  her  all  one  happy  day, — 
She  smil'd,  nor  turn'd  her  cheek  away, 
But  bade  me  press  it ; — Ah  !  I  could 
Have  melted  in  the  melting  flood 


BLANCHE.  21 

Of  joy,  that  o'er  my  spirit  came, — 

But  then  I  was  a  child  of  shame ! 

And  quick  I  stifled  every  hope, 

Nor  thought  with  higher  claims  to  cope  ; — 

I  knew  some  rnaids  the  world  call'd  fair, — 

It  bade  me  their  delights  to  share, — 

It  told  me  such  as  these  would  suit 

My  station,  and  it  spake  the  truth, — 

But  yet  I  loath'd  their  vapid  charms, 

My  only  heaven  was  Blanche's  arms. 

I  told  her  all. — Cried  she,  "before 

The  God  we  both  love  and  adore, — 

As  He  is  changeless,  never !  never  ! 

I  bear  a  heart  unchang'd  forever  !" 


She  married  !  yes,  that  other  ; — I 
Need  waste  no  words  to  tell  ye  why ; — 
Blanche  !  I'll  not  trail  the  serpent's  slime 
O'er  that  dear,  injur'd  breast  of  thine. 
'Tis  fearful  for  two  hearts  to  yearn 
Upon  each  other,  love,  yet  turn, 
And  let  a  thing  of  common  clay 
Handle  the  cup  we  throw  away  ! 


22  BLANCHE. 

To  feel,  despite  of  change  and  time, 

Those  hearts  will  flow  like  fairy  rhyme, 

In  mingled  measure,  pure  and  free, 

On  in  their  own  Eternity. — 

I  say,  'tis  fearful,  then,  to  trust 

Their  shrines  in  hands  of  worldly  lust ; — 

The  deed  was  done — she  married — I 

With  unblanch'd  cheek  stood  calmly  by, 

Nor  falter'd  I  when  by  his  side 

I  saw  her  stand  a  blushing  bride ; 

For  well  I  knew  when  there  she  stood 

Yet  in  the  pride  of  maidenhood, 

Her  heart  went  not  out  with  the  vow 

Her  lips  were  idly  breathing  now. 

I  saw  her  cast  one  sudden  glance 

Upon  me  ;  then,  as  if  in  trance 

She  stood  ;  and  when  he  took  her  hand, 

Her  face  was  not  discolor'd — and 

She  hardly  knew  it  when  he  press'd 

His  lip  to  hers,  and  fain  caress'd. 

One  moment,  in  my  inmost  heart, 

I  felt  the  tide  of  anger  start, — 

One  moment,  and  I  would  have  hurl'd 

The  wretch  to  the  eternal  world, — 


BLANCHES  23 

Oh,  Heaven !  'twas  awful,  thus  to  see 

My  only  joy  snatch'd,  torn,  from  me. — 

I  say  that  then,  one  moment,  one, 

Hell's  darkest  deed  had  there  been  done  ; 

I  would  have  rush'd  and  quickly  made 

The  wife  a  widow — there  was  laid 

A  sinewy  arm  upon  my  frame  j 

I  felt  the  fast  increasing  flame — 

But  God  be  thank'd — it  pass'd,  and  then 

A  calmness  stole  o'er  me  again  ; — 

And  when  the  flaming  bowl  was  quaflf'd, 

I  pass'd  it  round  and  gaily  laugh'd ; — 

Laugh'd,  while  the  color  mounted  up 

In  Blanche's  face — I  waved  my  cup, 

And  swore  she  was  an  angel  now — 

An  angel,  but /would  not  bow. — 

She  felt  the  sneer,  and  then  upon 

The  arm  of  her  new-married  one 

She  lean'd,  until  her  grief  was  o'er, — 

I  turn'd,  and  louder  laugh'd  once  more  : 

It  was  a  triumph,  but  apart 

From  this,  that  laugh  chill'd  e'en  my  heart ! 


24  BLANCHE. 


PART  II. 

They  did  not  know  how  pride  can  stoop, 
When  baffled  feelings  withering  droop  ; 
They  did  not  know  how  hate  can  hum 
In  hearts  once  changed  from  soft  to  stern. 

BY  ROW. 

I. 

To  hearts  that  love,  and  love  in  vain, 
The  very  joy  of  youth  brings  pain  ; 
The  smiles  of  light  that  round  them  beam 
Fling  on  their  waste  a  frightful  gleam  ; — 
As  when  upon  some  loathsome  sight 
We  throw  a  flash  of  heaven's  light, 
Which  only  serves  to  show  the  gloom 
That  wraps  a  doleful,  living  tomb. — 
My  heart  declined,  and,  day  by  day, 
I  felt  some  new  desire  give  way, — 
Something  I  used  to  love  and  bless, — 
Something  that  met  my  warm  caress  ; — 
One  only  love  was  left  me  still, 
One  only  passion  ruled  my  will ; 
I  sought  again  the  solitude, 
Where  bitter  thoughts  might  not  intrude, 


BLANCHE.  25 

Where  the  sweet  whispers  breathing  round 
Might  shed  nepenthe  o'er  my  wound  ; 
And  in  this  bright  and  glorious  West 
Sleeps  many  a  happy  bower  of  rest ; 
For  it  has  wealth  of  land  and  streams, 
And  clouds  float  o'er  its  breast  like  dreams, 
And  hills  stand  sentry,  and  the  sun 
Looks  kindly  all  its  haunts  upon  : — 
'Twere  strange  that  in  a  land  like  this 
The  heart  could  e'er  be  drain'd  of  bliss. — 
I  say  that  mine  could  not  forget 
The  beauteousness  of  nature  yet  ; 
And  Blanche  had  wove  God's  blessed  things 
More  closely  round  its  trembling  strings ; 
And  sometimes,  still,  the  mountain  air 
Would  lightly  toss  my  curling  hair 
Like  her  slight  fingers,  and  the  sky 
Look'd  tender  as  her  thoughtful  eye, 
And  I  would  lose  all  sense  of  pain 
When  mem'ry  wove  its  woof  again, 
Till  I  was  forced  to  press  my  brow 
Upon  my  hands,  and  wildly  vow 
She  should  be  mine  ; — but,  ah  !  my  brain 
Would  reel  whene'er  I  thought  again. 


26  BLANCHE. 

'Twas  past — 'twas  past — for  ever  past,- 
I'd  ta'en  my  first  embrace  and  last ; — 
No  matter — 'twas  a  fiendish  thought, 
Yet  in  my  brain  it  wildly  wrought ; 
She  was  unhappy — even  she 
Pined  in  her  solitude  for  me  ; — 
And  then  I  said,  I'll  watch  the  hour 
When  thou  shalt  be  within  my  power  ;- 
'Tis  base,  I  know,  such  guilt  to  tell, 
But  yet  I  watch'd,  and  found  it  well. 


My  love  had  chang'd  to  sullen  hate  ; 
I  loath'd  her  from  that  very  date, — 
But  yet  I  kept  my  feelings  press'd 
Deep  in  the  chambers  of  my  breast, 
And  my  lips  wore  as  glad  a  smile 
As  in  my  better  days,  for  while 
My  heart  was  burning  for  the  power 
Of  sweet  revenge,  the  fated  hour 
I  had  not  seen  ;  I  waited  only 

For  some  regret  to  cross  her  path  ; 
When  in  her  heart,  all  sad  and  lonely, 

As  where  the  storm  his  footsteps  hath, 


BLANCHE.  27 

There  should  not  be  a  living  thing, 
Round  which  its  tendrils  still  might  cling. 

in. 

And  did  I  say  I  loved  her  not  ? 

Desire  was  all  that  was  forgot. 

And  did  I  say  I  loathed  her  charms  ? 

I  loathed  the  thing  within  her  arms. 

He  spurn'd  me, — hear  it — even  he, — 

Her  mate, — a  cur  of  "  low  degree," 

A  doubly  pitiful  ingrate, 

Whom  we  may  crush,  but  cannot  hate ! 

The  worm  may  look  upon  the  star — 

He  drove  me  from  her  sight  afar  ! 

What  marvel  scorn  began  its  tread, 

And  'neath  its  path  shrank  conscience  dead ; 

While  like  a  flame  of  leaping  fire 

Mounted  the  trampling  devil  higher, 

Burn'd  on  my  cheek,  flash'd  through  my  eyes, 

Hurl'd  back  its  fearful,  swift  replies ; — 

Chok'd  me  with  vengeance, — struggled,  burst 

In  fury  o'er  the  thing  accurs'd  ! 


28  BLANCHE. 

IV. 

Send  down  thy  pitying  angel,  God  I 

To  weep  above  the  path  I've  trod. 

I've  no  compunctious  throbs  or  fears, — 

I  have  no  fountain  left  of  tears. 

What  I  have  done  I'll  do  again ; 

The  crocodile  hath  tears  as  vain 

As  mine  could  be  ; — I  still  will  feel 

Through  blood,  and  crime,  and  fire,  and  steel, 

My  way  to  quiet, — still  will  wreak 

My  feelings  upon  act,  and  seek 

A  wild  and  dreary  solitude 

Of  soul,  where  hate  shall  not  intrude, 

Rather  than  live  to  be  the  jest 

Of  those  I  loathe  ; — I  will  have  rest ! 

What  words  are  these  ?     I  know  not,  and 

I  may  not  change  them, — let  them  stand  : — 

Weep  thou,  dear  angel,  if  it  be 

Repentant  tears  must  fall  for  me. 

v. 

He  died, — I  tell  not  where,  nor  how, — 
He  is  forgot, — what  boots  it  now  1 


BLANCHE.  29 

I  only  say  the  gorgeous  West 

Of  direful  deed  hath  been  the  test ; 

On  prairies  broad  the  grass  is  rank 

Above  full  many  a  madcap  prank, 

While  happy  birds  still  o'er  may  go, 

And  many  a  reckless  buffalo. — 

Why  speak  ? — for  Blanche  could  never  guess 

I  bore  one  trace  of  gladness  less 

From  that  sad  hour. — Men  talk'd  of  crime, 

But  this  ceas'd  in  a  little  time  ; 

They  spake  of  foul  deeds  somehow  done 

In  caves  where  never  look'd  the  sun  ; 

They  said  the  West  was  vast  and  broad, 

They  spake  of  the  great  eye  of  God  ; — 

But  all,  I  say,  soon  seem'd  a  doubt ; 

They  sought  no  more  to  find  it  out, 

Till  what,  in  sooth,  his  fate  might  be, 

They  made  no  askings, — nor  should  ye. 

VI. 

I  said  I  found  the  hour  ; — he  died, 
And  left  an  infant  by  her  side  ; 
A  boy  so  sportive,  gay,  and  wild 
It  grew,  that  it  her  heart  beguil'd. 


30  BLANCHE. 

I  saw  this,  and  I  turn'd  once  more, 

And  bow'd  to  her  I  lov'd  before. 

'Twas  strange  no  other  love  could  twine 

Between  that  fair  one's  heart  and  mine  ; 

There  never  could ; — but  yet  I  felt 

A  change  upon  me  as  I  knelt 

Once  more  in  worship  at  her  shrine  ; 

I  lov'd  not  as  in  former  time. 

For  I  had  learn'd  to  mock  and  jest ; 

I  thought  as  my  love  was  the  rest. 

My  lip  was  wreath'd  in  scornings  proud  ; 

Men  spake  of  Blanche,  my  laugh  was  loud. 

Oh  !  it  is  fearful  thus  to  smile, 

And  hide  a  tortur'd  heart  the  while, — 

'Tis  as  the  pleasant  fields  that  lay 

On  Etna's  bosom  of  decay, 

Ere  the  consuming  devil  there 

Has  scath'd  each  ling'ring  impress  fair : 

And  so  my  lips  no  traces  wore 

Of  what  my  fever'd  spirit  bore  ; 

I  bound  them  in  a  breathless  spell, 

Taught  them  to  mimic  gladness  well ; — 

And  Blanche,  e'en  Blanche  knew  not  the  soul 

Where  once  she  sat,  and  rul'd  the  whole, 


BLANCHE.  31 

For  she  had  leant  her  spirit's  wing 

Awhile  upon  a  meaner  thing, 

And  all  its  hues  had  caught  a  stain 

That  mirror'd  not  my  heart  again  ; — 

Nay,  hear  me  on, — my  soul  was  bent 

To  carry  out  its  fell  intent, — 

To  wed  her  ? — No !  I  could  not  press 

The  lips  that  burn'd  with  the  caress 

Of  him  I  hated, — could  not  sigh 

For  love  that  had  been  tasted  ;  I 

Felt  my  proud  heart  too  sorely  wrung 

Ever  to  be  again  re-strung. — 

Was  she  less  fond,  or  I  less  true  ? 

Ye'll  soon  know  all — come  hear  me  through. 

VII  . 

I  said  her  boy  was  wild  and  gay  ; — 
I  loath'd  him,  for  each  passing  day 
His  features  seemed  more  like  his  sire, 
And  this  drunk  up  my  heart  like  fire. 
'Twas  on  a  night  of  storm  and  fear, 
I  sat  her  fainting  heart  to  cheer  ; 
The  swift  wind  drove  the  thunder  blast, 
The  watery  deluge  poured  as  fast ; 


32  BLANCHE. 

My  soul  was  in  the  scene — the  cloud 
Was  like  its  own  funereal  shroud ; 
But  Blanche  was  desolate — her  heart 
In  storm  and  tempest  took  no  part, 
For  o'er  it  had  the  death  wind  blown  ; 
One  living  thing  was  left  alone, 
And  that  was  little  ;  and  she  tried 
Her  tell-tale  blush  of  guilt  to  hide. 
Her  boy  lay  sick  upon  her  breast ; 
She  sang  him  to  his  troubled  rest, 
Then  turned  her  lustrous  eyes  on  me 
One  moment — one — and  I  was  free 
From  anger  and  from  deadly  hate. 
One  moment — 'twas  a  heavenly  state 
Of  joy,  and  peace,  so  calm,  so  sweet, 
I  ne'er  expect  again  to  meet 
On  earth  ; — I  say,  I  did  forget 
The  pride  that  was  not  conquer'd  yet — 
And  I  spake  gentle  words,  and  she 
Smiled  gladly  in  her  ecstasy 
Of  bliss.     I  felt  within  my  hair 
Her  fingers  light  as  summer  air ; 
I  felt  her  bosom  heave  upon 
The  breast  of  her  beloved  one ; 


BLANCHE.  83 

I  heard  her  words — "  Oh,  wilt  thou  not 

Let  all — all — all — be  now  forgot  ? 

Oh  !  as  thou  hop'st  for  peace  in  heaven, 

May  not  thy  Blanche  be  yet  forgiven  ?" 

I  know  not  if  the  damn'd  in  hell 

Struggle  as  fiercely  or  as  well ; — 

I  stirr'd  not — breath3  d  not — liv'd  not  then 

Was  Blanche,  dear  Blanche,  my  own  again  ? 

Oh,  Heaven,  the  bliss  ! — but  in  my  heart 

I  felt  my  wounded  feelings  start ; 

There  was  one  love  that  might  not  be, 

There  lay  the  thing  I  could  not  see, — 

Ah !  Blanche  mistook  her  pleading  power — 

She  wrought  her  ruin  in  that  hour. 

She  handed  me  her  child — 'twas  o'er — 

I  could  contain  myself  no  more ; 

And  with  a  word  of  bitter  scorn, 

I  hurl'd  from  me  her  eldest  born 

And  only  child, — the  spell  was  broke, 

Though  not  a  word  of  grief  she  spoke, 

And  when  we  parted,  'twas  to  meet 

Before  God's  fearful  judgment-seat. 


34  BLANCHE. 


VIII  . 

I'm  fain  to  think  that  infant  fair 

Is  where  God's  holy  angels  are  : 

He  died  before  another  day 

Had  track'd  o'er  earth  its  golden  way. 

I  would  have  left  that  hope  to  throw 

Its  balm  o'er  Blanche's  heart  of  woe, 

But  whither  she  soon  pass'd  to  dwell 

They  know  the  truth  of  such  things  well. 

Men  spake  to  me  of  how  she  died — 

They  chid  rny  selfish,  cruel  pride. 

I  bore  their  pity  as  their  scorn — 

The  first  act  left  my  heart  forlorn, 

And  when  I  stood  beside  her  bier, 

I  might  have  shed  a  straggling  tear, 

But  that  was  all — and  'twas  for  her 

When  I  was  first  her  worshipper — 

'Twas  not  for  Blanche  when  she  had  given 

Her  hand  away — though  never  riven 

I  knew  her  heart  had  been  from  me ; 

I  bless'd  the  day  that  set  her  free, 

For  well  I  knew  those  thoughts  would  burn 

Till  dust  should  to  its  dust  return. 


BLANCHE.  35 

I  say  my  heart  was  broke  at  first — 
Death  came — 'twas  but  the  mock'ry  burst ! 
I  know  not  but  it  made  me  glad  ; 
I  grew  more  calm,  if  not  less  sad, 
For  now  that  scorn  had  work'd  its  will, 
A  spirit  in  me  lov'd  her  still. 

ix . 

Ye  cannot  read  upon  my  face 

One  sign  of  that  consuming  trace, 

The  fire  beneath  my  fever'd  brow 

Expir'd,  and,  all  is  ashes  now ; 

'Tis  like  the  sculptur'd  stillness  death 

Bequeaths  the  form  with  parted  breath, 

The  rigid,  beautiful  repose 

That  will  o'er  fiercest  struggles  close. 

And  ye  have  mark'd  me  turn  away 

From  scenes  where  all  was  blithe  and  gay, 

And  muse  apart — or  if  I  chance 

Gaze  on  the  phantoms  of  the  dance, 

'Twas  only  as  a  worshipper, 

To  seek  once  more  the  form  of  her, 

This  heart's  first  idol  and  its  last, 

On  whom  its  all  of  love  was  cast. 


36  BLANCHE. 

I  cannot  see  what  I  have  seen, 
I  cannot  be  what  I  have  been, 
Yet  oh  !  if  I  seem  calm — say  not 
My  heart  is  cold — I've  ne'er  forgot 
That  with'ring  flame,  and  first  must  die, 
And  meet  once  more  must  Blanche  and  I. 

1842. 


DREAMS 


"  Sleep, 

But  a  continuance  of  enduring  thought, 

.     .     .     .     these  eyes  but  close 
To  look  within."  BYRON'S  MANFRED. 


DREAMS,  bright  dreams ! 
Visions  sent  on  the  wings  of  sleep, 
Gladd'ning  the  universe,  where  do  ye  steep 
Your  robes  in  glory,  that  thus  ye  wear 
The  lustre  and  beauty  of  uppermost  air  ? 
In  the  brightness  that  decketh  the  rainbow's  hues  ? 
Where  light  is  spangling  the  fragrant  dews  ? 
Do  ye  bathe  where  the  flash  of  stars  grows  dim 
In  the  kindling  glow  of  the  cherubim  ? 

That  thus  ye  are  sent 

From  the  firmament 


88  DREAMS. 

To  lighten  the  heart  with  your  bursting  gleams, 
In  dreams,  bright  dreams  ? 

ii . 

Dreams,  bright  dreams  ! 
Do  spirits  that  dwell  in  light  and  song 
Breathe  melody  out  as  they  glide  along  ? 
Have  they  a  power  to  catch  and  fling 
Their  notes  o'er  the  slumb'ring  heart's  harp-string  ? 
Or  where  the  anthems  of  Paradise 
Are  floating  along  in  the  far,  far  skies, — 
Bring  they  from  thence  some  wild'ring  strain 
To  swell  o'er  the  human  heart  again, 

As  an  Angel's  shout 

Were  pouring  it  out, 
And  heaven  is  opening,  the  rapt  soul  deems, 

In  dreams,  bright  dreams  ? 

in . 

Dreams,  bright  dreams ! 
Ay  !  to  my  heart  ye  are  simpler  things  : 
Love  is  the  light  of  your  radiant  wings — 
Ye  are  the  pulse  of  the  quiet  heart 
Beating  in  slumber,  new  hope  to  impart ! 


DREAMS.  39 

Fancies,  they  call  you  ;  but  oh,  ye  are  not ! 

Tokens  are  ye  of  a  happier  lot, 

Visions  of  what  the  heart  would  be, 

Yearnings  for  that  which  is  pure  and  free, 
When  the  soul  goes  forth 
From  the  clogs  of  earth, 

And  its  own  pure  thought  is  the  light  that  seems 
Of  dreams,  bright  dreams. 

IV. 

Dreams,  sad  dreams ! 
Visions  sent  on  the  wings  of  sleep, 
Dark'ning  the  universe,  where  do  ye  steep 
Your  robes  in  blackness,  that  thus  ye  come 
To  throw  your  gloom  o'er  the  quiet  home  ? 
In  the  fount  where  the  Night-God  dips  his  wings  ? 
In  the  still,  dark  tomb  of  decaying  things  ? 
Have  ye  some  strange,  mysterious  power 
To  rise,  and  dart  in  the  midnight  hour, 

From  the  death-weeds  rank 

In  the  church-yard  dank, 
Round  the  soul  of  the  sleeper,  your  frightful  beams, 

In  dreams,  sad  dreams  ? 


40  DREAMS. 

Y. 

Dreams,  sad  dreams  I 

Doth  night  bring  fear  to  the  heart  when  laid 
Calmly  to  rest  in  its  folding  shade  ? 
Is  there  a  spirit  of  woe  to  bear, 
A  shriek  of  terror,  a  load  of  care  ? 
Do  strange  words  mix  with  the  light  winds'  sigh  ? 
Passeth  the  wizard  of  torment  by  ? 
In  silence  and  darkness  doth  there  dwell 
Some  fiend,  let  loose  from  the  bars  of  Hell, 

That  hovers  around 

In  the  gloom  profound, 
And  horribly  shrieks  through  the  fitful  gleams 

Of  dreams,  sad  dreams  ? 

VI. 

Dreams,  sad  dreams  I 
Ye  are  no  spell  of  a  wizard  hand, 
Ye  rise  not  up  at  a  fiend's  command  ; 
When  slumber  falls  on  a  guilty  breast, 
Ye  are  the  pulse  of  his  heart's  unrest. 
Fancies,  they  call  you  ;  but  oh,  ye  are  not ! 
Shadows  are  ye  of  some  damning  spot 


DREAMS.  41 


In  life,  that  haunteth  the  stricken  soul ; 

And  the  voices  of  woe  that  over  it  roll, 
As  a  demon  rout 
Were  pouring  them  out, 

Are  but  the  beatings  within,  that  he  deems 
Are  dreams,  sad  dreams. 

1844. 


MEDITATIONS 

IN    THE    MAMMOTH    CAVE,    KENTUCKY. 


"  Sit  mihi  fas — 
Pandere  res  alta  terra  el  caligine  mersas." 

VIR.  JEs.  vi.  266-7. 

By  your  leave,  sirs,  I'll  talk  a  little  about  this  subterranean  world. 

TRANSLATION. 


STUPENDOUS  cavern  !  I  have  read  of  wonders, 

Of  Pyramids  sky-kissing,  grottoes,  and 
Stale  mummies  that  have  overslept  the  thunders 

Of  battling  armies,  of  time's  ruthless  hand 
Touching  them  lightly  :  these  are  strange — but  thou  f 
When  wert  thou  built  ?  by  whom  ?  for  what  ?  and  how  ? 

ii. 

Perhaps  thou  art  as  old  as  Time  ; — then  say, 
Didst  hear  the  stars  sing,  and  the  angels  shout  ? 

When  God  said  "  light,"  did  one  bright  wand'ring  ray 
Straggle  where  now  I  stand  ?     Wert  thou  scooped  out 


MEDITATIONS.  43 

Before  or  after  thou  wert  swinging  through 
Nothing's  abode,  as  stars  swing  in  the  blue  ? 

in. 

If  'twas  before,  'twould  be  quite  interesting 

To  know  a  little  more  about  that  state 
Of  hotch-potch,  yclept  chaos  ;  but  divesting 

Thoughts  from  my  mind  of  ante-primal  date, 
I'll  leave  such  inquiries  to  the  "  dark  ages  " 
Where  they  belong,  or  for  less  silent  sages. 

f  v . 

If  after,  tell  me,  was  thy  form  a  freak 

Of  nature,  and  as  late  wiseacres  say, 
Did  some  great  river  (Green,  perhaps,)  o'erbreak 

Its  banks,  and  force  through  thee  its  thund'ring  way  ? 
Where,  then,  could  it  have  possibly  got  out  ? 
And  where  all  gone  to  ?  for  I  stand  in  doubt. 

v  . 

Well,  canst  thou  tell  ?  Paugh  !  'twould  be  speculation — • 
Thou  know'st  of  things  above  ground,  less  than  I ; 

For  I'm  convinced,  (and  this  is  plain  narration,) 
Thou  never  saw'st  the  great,  free,  boundless  sky ; 


44  MEDITATIONS. 

What  dost  thou  think  then,  of  the  pale-faced  people 
That  sail  thy  "  Styx,"  and  stare  up  "  Gorin's"  steeple  ? 

VI. 

Have  brighter  beings  ever  sported  through 
Thy  winding  halls,  and  lighter  voices  rung  ? 

Have  fairies  danced  in  "  Cleaveland  Avenue,''* 

Skimm'd  swifter  thy  dark  waves  and  sweeter  sung  ? 

Have  they  (I  reckon  not)  "  Mat's  "*  back  bestrid, 

And  got  a  ducking,  as  your  Poet  did  ? 

VII. 

"  O !  ilia  messorum !"  could  they  eat 

The  grapes  that  cluster  on  thy  star-lit  walls  ? 

"  Non  erat  nasus  illis,"  if  as  sweet 

They  deem'd  their  flowers  as  those  that  deck  our  halls. 

Perhaps  I  am  mistaken,  and  the  hue 

Supplied  the  place  of  luscious  sweetness  too. 

VIII. 

Perhaps,  too,  I'm  mistaken  in  their  shape, 
And  awful  forms  inhabit  this  abode, 

*  "  Mat "  and  "  Steph  "  are  the  names  of  the  Cave  guides. 


MEDITATIONS.  45 

Chimeras  dire — fiends  that  have  made  their  'scape 

From  human  eye — from  all  but  conscience'  goad. — 
Say,  are  our  fears  the  echoes  that  they  fling 
Back — back  on  the  unsullied  heart's  harp-string  ? 

IX. 

Well,  even  I  have  had  my  feelings  stirr'd, 

If  not  above  ground,  certainly  in  thee ; 
I've  held  my  breath  until  the  sound  was  heard 

Of  rocks,  our  guide  threw  into  the  "Dead  Sea," 
And  stared  to  see  the  lighted  taper  hit 
The  water  in  the  "  Bottomless  "  dark  "  Pit." 

x . 

I've  trod  the  "  Gothic  Avenue  "  throughout, 

Come  to  the  "  Lover's  Leap,"  but  didn't  take  it, 

Fill'd  the  whole  "  Chapel  "  with  an  echoing  shout, 

« 

A  huge  st  alagmite  saw,  and  tried  to  break  it, 
'Tis  called  the  "  Pillar  of"  (his  name  is  one 
That  will  not  rhyme)  Jove  and  Alcmena's  son. 

x  i. 

I've  gazed  into  thy  chamber,  set  with  stars, 
And  thought  of  brighter  eyes  I  left  at  home ; 


46  MEDITATIONS. 

Have  pluck'd  thy  gems  no  human  polish  mars, 

Have  sail'd  thy  "  Styx,"  and  look'd  up  every  dome ; 
Have  drunk  the  water  from  thy  sparkling  fountains, 
And  sat  down  tired  upon  thy  "  Rocky  Mountains." 

XII. 

I've  quafPd  Madeira  in  ';  Queen  Mary's  Bower," 
And  eat  cold  chicken — (this  is  quite  romantic) — 

Picked  up  in  "  Cleaveland  Avenue  "  a  flower — 
Listen'd  to  doggerel  that  run  me  frantic, 

Until,  at  length,  ('twas  natural,  you'll  say,) 

My  feelings  found  an  outbreak  in  this  way. 

XIII  . 

Oh  !  thou  hast  seen  earth's  paragons — the  eye 

Of  starlike  beauty  has  been  lit  in  thee, 
And  forms  of  angel  slightness  have  pass'd  by — 

Say,  was  thy  great  heart  beating  not  to  see 
Creatures  like  these — such  as  have  often  trod 
Thy  "  winding  ways  " — brows  touch'd  with  light  from 
God? 

XIV. 

Have  such  gone  down  in  thee,  and  to  the  light — 
The  common  smile  of  heaven — returned  no  more  ? 


MEDITATIONS.  47 

Oh,  God  !  I  shudder — in  intensest  night 

Have  spirits  wander'd  to  the  far,  far  shore 
Of  dim  Eternity,  and  in  thine  awful  keeping 
Are  earth's  most  beautiful  and  godlike  sleeping  ? 

xv  . 

"Pis  said,  (I  think  the  story  may  be  so — 

'Tis  very  likely,  and  "  Steph  "  swore  he  did,) 

Some  wanderer  found  a  dozen  years  ago, 
Or  more,  perhaps,  within  this  cavern  hid, 

Two  men,  all  shrivell'd — perfect  Indian  dummies, 

As  stale  and  time-worn  as  Egyptian  mummies. 

XVI. 

Oh,  that  I  knew  their  history.     Canst  thou  tell  ? 

Say,  were  they  friends  or  foes  ?    What  is  the  tale 
Of  their  life's  sufferings  ?  By  what  magic  spell 

Lured,  came  they  hither  ?  how  grew  pale 
Beneath  Death's  touch  ? — hold,  probably  you  knew  'em 
Not,  when  their  hearts  leap'd  glad,  and  blood  run  through 
'em. 

x  vn . 

Why  ask  ? — I  know  those  sealed  lips  have  press'd 
The  cheek  of  beauty — hopes,  fond  hopes  have  beat 


48  MEDITATIONS. 

Within  those  dusky  bosoms, — what's  the  rest 

Of  life  ?  a  little  mingling  of  the  sad  and  sweet ; — 
This  they  have  had — what  mortal  hath  them  not  ? 
They  died  !  and  now  their  mem'ry  is  forgot. 

XVIII. 

Oh !  for  some  voice  whose  all-pervading  power 
Might  fill  my  wonderings ;  can  there  be  no  sound 

To  break  the  stillness  of  this  awful  hour, 

And  stir  the  blackness  of  this  gloom  profound  ? 

Here  on  my  bended  knee,  all  eye — all  ear, 

I  list,  and  pray — Spirit  of  Darkness,  hear ! 

xix . 

Vain — vain ;  no  sound  !  within  these  gloomy  halls 
God's  fearful  secret-keeper,  silence,  dwells 

Unbroke,  save  where  the  dripping  pebble  falls, 
The  cascade  tumbles,  or  the  fountain  wells  ; 

Voices  that  speak  not — sounds  that  seem  to  make 

Thy  deepmost  stillness  deeper  stillness  take. 

xx. 

Palace  that  seem'st  eternal — yet  shall  I, 
Mortality's  weak  worm,  behold  thy  fall, 


MEDITATIONS.  49 

When  thrones  shall  crumble,  men  in  terror  fly, 

And  darkness  spread  its  universal  pall — 
Then  to  the  quakings  of  that  trumpet-thunder 
Shall  every  vaulted  dome  be  rent  asunder. 

1844. 


THE    STORM-SPIRIT. 


DWELL  in  the  depths  of  the  sultry  air, 

I  sail  on  the  hurrying  cloud 
O'er  valleys  and  mountain-tops  jagged  and  bare, 

When  the  thunder-peal  sounds  loud ; 
And  the  eagle,  alit  on  a  shiver'd  peak, 

With  an  eye  on  the  dashing  spray, 
When  he  hears  the  rush  of  my  pinions  sweep 

Is  off  with  a  shriek — and  away  ! 

Away,  away !  but  I  follow  him  there, 

As  through  heaven's  blue  vault  he  springs, 
Till  I  leave  the  conqueror  stricken  and  bare, 

With  the  dust  on  his  royal  wings. 
He  may  gaze  on  the  sun  with  a  tireless  eye, 

He  may  sport  with  the  torrent's  foam, 
But  woe  to  his  plumes  when  the  whirlwinds  fly 

From  the  depths  of  their  pent-up  home. 


THE    STORM-SPIRIT.  51 

I  dwell  in  the  caves  of  the  upper  deep, 

And  the  clouds  my  nurslings  are, 
And  all  the  night  I  watch  o'er  their  sleep 

By  the  light  of  some  lonely  star ; — 
And  I  laugh  while  the  beautiful  skyey  tent 

Of  the  heaven  is  black'ning  o'er, 
And  the  dark  pavilion  of  clouds  is  rent 

By  the  thunder's  sullen  roar. 


1  summon  the  winds  from  their  dungeons  lone 

To  sweep  o'er  the  darken'd  earth, 
I  am  hovering  aye  where  the  great  trees  moan 

When  the  hurricane's  tramp  goes  forth ; 
And  on  the  sea  like  a  brooding  fiend 

I  silently  sit  and  swing, 
Till  lur'd  by  the  sighs  of  the  cavern'd  wind, 

Or  a  glance  of  the  lightning's  wing. 


Then  over  the  land,  and  the  streams,  and  sea, 

I  sweep  with  my  stormy  train, 
And  loud  and  fierce  as  the  wild  waves  be 

Is  the  mariner's  cry  of  pain, 


52  THE    STORM-SPIRIT. 

As  I  hover  awhile  o'er  the  foundering  bark, 

And  shiver  the  tott'ring  mast, 
And  hollow  the  place,  with  my  pinions  dark, 

Of  their  graves  as  I  hurry  past. 

I  lead  the  clouds  on  their  solemn  march 

As  back  to  their  lair  they  go, 
And  I  rear  the  bright  triumphal  arch 

Of  the  "  million-color'd  bow  ;" 
For  I  steal  the  rays  as  they  fall  askance 

From  the  sun  through  the  glist'ning  trees, 
And  each  beautiful  tint  that  is  there  by  chance, 

I  catch,  and  I  paint  with  these. 

Oh,  the  dark  Storm-Spirit  is  every  where  ! 

I  bask  in  the  torrid  glow, 
And  I  rear  for  the  Ice- King  his  palace  bare 

Of  the  everlasting  snow  ; 
And  wherever  the  foot  of  man  hath  been 

O'er  the  land,  and  streams,  and  sea, 
And  the  viewless  caves  of  the  air,  I  ween, 

Have  been  trod  by  the  storm  and  me. 

1841. 


GHOSTS. 


We  are  all  ghosts." 

SARTOR  RESARTUS. 


WHEN  the  spirit's  eylids  open, 
Outward  vestments  fall  away, 

And  it  sees  its  spirit-brothers 

Stalk  out  from  their  homes  of  clay. 

Every  thing  is  then  a  vision — 
Every  thing  a  pallid  ghost, 

Spectral  shapes  are  onward  leading 
Nothing  but  a  spectre  host. 

Sprites  are  piping  faint  hosannas, 
Ghosts  are  beating  phantom  drums, 

And,  a  formless  banner  waving, 
Lo,  an  apparition  comes  ! 


54  GHOSTS. 

Flitting  most  fantastically, 

Wreathing  in  a  vacuous  round, 

Go  the  outlines  dim  and  curious 
Of  a  substance  never  found. 

Fruits  that  look'd  all  glorious,  golden, 
Shadows  have  to  ashes  press'd  ; 

Phantom  shapes  of  men  are  dangling 
On  a  passion  phantom-breast. 

Spectres  gibber  in  the  dimness, 
Scraping  dust  that  looks  like  gold  ; 

Images  of  women  follow, 

With  their  features  wan  and  cold. 

For  not  on  a  human  shoulder, 

Skull-cramp'd,  stay  this  spirit  throng, 

But  through  pores  of  earth  and  ocean, 
Move,  a  thousand  million  strong. 

Now  they  flutter  like  a  forest, 

JOY  is  beating  his  reveil ; 
Comes,  like  silence  settling  after, 

SORROW'S  hush  of  plaintive  wail. 


GHOSTS. 

Through  a  portal  vague  and  vasty, 
Up  the  shadowy  concourse  go, 

And  these  strange  words  are  the  only 
Pulses  echoed  from  their  flow  : — 

"  Mystery  in  mystery  ending — 

Little  shaping  into  Most, 
Parts  for  ever  re-uniting 
Of  the  one  Essential  Ghost ! 

"  There  is  nothing  of  the  earthly, 

Save  these  EIDOLA  of  God, 
Looking  out  through  phantom-faces, 
O'er  the  Infinite  and  Broad !" 

1846. 


THE    VOICE    OF    DAYS. 


"  And  I  said,  Days  should  speak." 

JOB  .\.\.\ii.  7. 


How  beautiful ! 

Come  hither,  fair  one,  whose  bright  eye  to  me 
Is  like  a  summer  landscape,  and  whose  love 
Flows  like  the  voice  of  prayer.     Look,  how  the  moon 
Treads  the  bright  azure  with  her  "  silver  feet," 
And  stars  come  out  and  sing,  and  gilded  clouds 
Do  wave  their  banners,  and  the  dark  woods  stir 
As  they  were  wing'd  with  joy  ! 
How  eloquent  is  beauty !  every  star 
That  decks  the  brow  of  eve,  each  flower  that  lifts 
Its  meek  eye  up  to  God — each  gorgeous  cloud 
That  bathes  in  sunshine — every  painted  bird — 
The  rainbow's  teints — the  glory,  like  a  star, 
Of  woman's  beauty — every  fairy  hue    ( 


THE    VOICE    OF    DAYS.  57 

That  hath  been  garner'd  in  the  mighty  soul 
Of  the  wide  world,  are  full  of  eloquence. 
And  they  do  never  perish  :  as  our  years 
Rise  on  the  surge  of  being  and  are  lost, 
Their  echoes  die  not.     Every  gentle  breeze — 
Each  wave  that  leaps  in  light — each  voice  of  love — 
Yea,  and  the  "  audible  stillness  "  of  the  night 
Do  force  them  back,  and  list'ning  to  their  tones, 
We  heed  not  time,  but  make  our  lives  a  part 
Of  that  we  hear,  and  in  the  eloquent  thoughts 
Of  our  rapt  spirits  dwell. 

We  mete  not  time  by  years. 
The  blight  they  bring  our  hearts,  or  the  calm  joy, 
Is  our  chronometer.     To  each  bad  man 
Their  note  is  but  the  beating  of  his  heart, 
When  all  its  tide  is  lava,  and  the  swell 
Of  its  tumultuous  heavings  hurries  back 
O'er  days  of  sin.     The  good  man  heeds  them  not ; 
But  every  flower,  and  cloud,  and  laughing  stream, 
The  pomp  of  Autumn — every  passing  year — 
And  change,  and  time  are  shadowing  forth  the  hues 
Of  their  own  beauteous  order  in  his  heart, 
And  bearing  him  beyond  the  reach  of  years. 

1843. 

4 


THERE   ARE   MOMENTS  IN   LIFE. 


THERE  are  moments  in  life  of  most  exquisite  sadness, 
When  the  leaves  of  the  heart  close  around  its  per 
fume, 

And  alone  in  its  triumph  o'er  passion  and  madness 
It  asks  not — it  sighs  not  for  else  save  the  tomb. 

And  'tis  not  when  we  mourn  o'er  the  lovely  departed, 
When  our  anguish  is  deepest — these  moments  arise, 

But  they  wave  their  dark  wing  o'er  the  gay  and  light- 
hearted, 
Like  a  cloud  flitting  over  the  sunniest  skies. 

As  the  traveller  through  deserts,  when  evening  hath  found 
him 

Beside  some  oasis  indulging  in  joy, 
Grows  sick  when  he  hears  the  Bedouins  surround  him, 

And  silent  waits  only  their  time  to  destroy — 


THERE    ARE    MOMENTS    IN    LIFE.  59 

) 

Thus,  whenever  we  reach  a  glad  spot  in  existence, 
A  spot  that  seems  freest  from  sorrow  and  pain, 

Our  fears,  like  those  Arabs,  encamp  in  the  distance, 
And  our  hearts  become  silent  and  sadden'd  again. 

They  come — those  sad  moments — when  hope  seems  the 
brightest, 

To  cast  their  dark  hue  o'er  the  lips  that  we  love, 
They  steal  o'er  our  bosoms  when  bounding  the  lightest, 

And  breathe  "  There's  no  joy  unalloy'd  but  above." 

Oh,  who  has  not  bow'd  'neath  their  lone,  lone  dominion, 
Till  his  heart  lay  all  hush'd  in  his  passionless  breast, 

And  forgetful  of  earth  he  hath  yearn'd  for  the  pinion 
Of  a  dove  to  convey  him  away  to  his  rest ! 
1845. 


ODE 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ANDREW  JACKSON 


• 

DEAD  !  do  the  coward  and  the  brave 

Fall  then  at  length  as  low  ? 
Is  all  of  glory  but  the  grave — 

Its  pomp,  its  pride,  its  show  ? 
And  is  this  he — the  council  star — 
The  thunderbolt  of  blacken'd  war — 

And  hath  he  perish 'd  ? — no ! 
His  sun  is  gone,  but  left  its  rays, 
We  dwell  in  their  immortal  blaze. 

ii . 

A  pall  that  shadows  earth  and  sky, 
When  earth  and  sky  are  brigh 

A  wave  that  quickly  sparkles  by 
And  vanishes  in  light, 


DEATH    OF    ANDREW   JACKSOiN.  61 

A  sphere  eclipsed,  a  star  grown  dim — 
We  mourn  the  change,  but  not  thus  him, 

Who,  from  his  lofty  height, 
And  peerless  thought  by  men  before, 
Hath  died  to  take  but  one  step  more. 

in  . 

Yet,  man  of  battles,  hero,  say, 

Failed  not  thine  own  heart 
In  journeying  that  lonely  way, 

How  didst  thou  act  thy  part  ? 
No  shield — no  sword — no  flag — no  plume — 
Methinks  thou  couldst  have  met  thy  doom, 

Nor  felt  one  terror  start, 
Had  these  been  there,  and  the  hurrah 
Been  heard  in  that  relentless  war. 

iv  . 

Ah,  no  !  the  friends  that  saw  thee  fall, 

Saw  not  thy  soul  give  way ; 
Chieftain  !  'twas  worth  thy  triumphs  all, 

To  fade  in  such  a  ray  ; 
Laden  with  honor  and  with  years, 
Thou  left  behind  thee  all  the  tears 


62  DEATH    OF    ANDREW   JACKSON. 

Shed  on  thy  setting  day, 
While  gladly  to  their  place  of  rest, 
Thy  weary  footsteps  onward  press'd. 

v. 

A  shade  hath  settled  on  thy  lips, 

Nor  on  thy  lips  alone  ; 
Each  star  is  veiled  in  dim  eclipse 

That  on  our  banner  shone. 
Dead  f  hear  ye  not  that  fearful  sound  ? 
'Twill  echo  Freedom's  area  round, 

And  murmur  'neath  the  throne 
Of  her,  who  sits  the  "  Ocean  Queen," 
To  wake  her  once-mock'd  empire-dream. 

VI. 

Who  comes  to  gaze  upon  that  face, 
That  smile  once  more  to  greet  ? 

What !  no  warm  pressure — no  embrace — 
Is  it  thus  heroes  meet  ? 

'Tis  he  from  yonder  sister  star 

That  shines  above  the  wreck  of  war, 
In  virgin  brightness  sweet  ; 


DEATH   OF   ANDREW   JACKSON.  63 

Giv'st  him  no  words  of  praise  to  keep  ? 
Too  late !  brave  Texan,  turn  and  weep. 

VII  . 

Go  plunge  into  the  battle  strife, 

In  peace  adorn  thy  name, 
If  yet  thy  little  space  of  life 

May  yield  thee  such  a  fame. 
Where  is  the  hero,  of  what  age, 
Who  such  a  boundless  heritage 

Of  glory  e'er  could  claim  1 
Call  up  earth's  mighty  dead,  and  say 
Ere  thou  departest — who  are  they  ? 

VIII  . 

Not  thou,  who  from  a  Northern  home 

Thy  ruthless  pathway  trod 
In  vengeance  to  Eternal  Rome, 

The  appointed  "Scourge  of  God,"' 
Vain  compare  !  though  thy  vassals  bring 
The  crowns  of  many  a  captur'd  king, 
And  hurl  them  on  the  sod ; 
Or,  as  thou  bad'st,  Busentius  turn, 
To  form  thy  everlasting  urn. 


64  DEATH   OF   ANDREW   JACKSON. 

IX. 

Not  thou,  destroyer,  infidel 

In  all  save  thine  own  lust, — 
Thou  knewest  not  how  deep  a  hell 

Yearn'd  for  its  loathsome  trust. 
Thou  deem'dst  not  in  thy  peerless  height, 
Thy  star  could  set  in  such  a  night, 

Till  wriggling  in  the  dust, 
Thou  saw'st  good  Brutus  standing  o'er, 
Thy  friend  no  less — his  country's  more. 

x . 

Nor  thou,  Gaul's  glory  and  her  shame, 

The  mighty  and  the  mean, 
Could  e'en  Marengo's  blaze  of  fame 

Light  up  thy  closing  scene  ? 
Mumbling  thy  prison  bars,  to  guess 
TTwere  vain,  how  in  thy  wretchedness, 

Did  all  thy  glory  seem — 
Man-mountain  !  cast  into  life's  flood 
To  turn  its  peaceful  waves  to  blood. 

XI. 

In  vain — turn  thou  to  Freedom's  land, 
Earth's  noble  dwell  not  here 


DEATH   OF    ANDREW   JACKSON.  65 

Where  despots  wield  a  flaming  brand 
O'er  slaves  that  crouch  and  fear ; 

Turn  thou  to  gaze  upon  one  gem 

That  glitters  in  our  diadem, 
As  stainless  as  'tis  dear ; 

Worth  all  the  gems  that  e'er  have  shone  ; 

Till  Jackson's  death,  that  blazed  alone  ! 

XII. 

Raise  then  no  pile — he  long'd  to  rest 

'Neath  Freedom's  hallow'd  sod, 
His  dust — here  in  the  glorious  West, 

We  leave  it  with  its  God. 
Let  his  eternal  column  be 
The  smile  that  lingers  round  the  Free, 

Their  area  bright  and  broad  ; 
He  living  spurn'd  the  tomb  of  kings — 
Why  mock  his  memory  with  such  things  ? 

XIII  . 

Pause  now — that  name  will  ever  be 

A  thunderbolt  to  thrones, 
That  kings  their  littleness  may  see 

Who  build  on  human  bones, 

4* 


66  DEATH    OF    ANDREW   JACKSON. 

Who  trample  into  glorious  birth 
The  slumbering  heroes  of  the  earth, 
That  knelt  in  sighs  and  groans, 
Nor  deem'd  before  how  weak  are  they, 
The  "  Pagod-things  "  that  men  obey. 

XIV. 

'Twill  live  the  wonder  of  each  age, 
Not  as  earth's  great  have  done, 
A  Christian,  hero,  or  a  sage, 
But  as  these  all  in  one  ; 
And  coming  years  will  love  to  blend 
In  union  until  time  shall  end 

Jackson  and  Washington ; 
While  in  the  senseless  clay  they  rot,  • 
Shall  stupid  tyrants  be  forgot. 

1845. 


TIME. 


The  Desolater  desolate  ! 
The  Victor  overthrown ! 

BYRON. 

OH,  mighty,  tri-crown'd  King  ! 
Where  are  the  limits  of  thy  vast  domain  ? 
Ages  that  seem'd  eternal  in  their  spring 

Lie  buried  'neath  thy  reign. 

Kingdoms  that  proudly  stood, 
And  look'd  defiance  in  thine  iron  brow  ; 
Sages  that  counsel'd  nations,  and  the  good 

Alike,  where  are  they  now  ? 

Hearts  that  beat  high  with  life, 
And  bards  that  rous'd  them  by  their  words  of  flame, 
Warriors  that  shrunk  not  from  the  battle  strife, 

When  red  destruction  came — 


68  TIME. 

Swept  by  thy  rushing  hand 
To  infinite  oblivion — not  a  trace 
E'en  of  their  ruin  hast  thou  suffer'd  stand 

To  mark  that  ruin's  place. 

Gone  is  Assyria's  pride, 

Mock'd  are  the  dreamings  of  the  old  Chaldee, 
And  Greece  that  startled  nations  when  she  died, 

A  corpse  of  glory — see  ! 

What  countless  thousands  fell 
When  stoop'd  the  lightning  of  the  Roman  sword  ! 
But  Roman  valor  that  wast  erst  a  spell, 

Is  a  forgotten  word. 

Over  all  kings  proud  King  ! 
Where  are  the  limits  of  thy  vast  domain  ? 
The  Past  is  thine — though  from  its  ashes  spring 

A  Phoenix  o'er  thy  reign. 

Thine  is  the  Present — thou 
Wavest  thy  sceptre  and  the  mortal  flow, 
Backward,  with  paleness  on  each  vanquished  brow, 

Through  thy  dim  portals  go. 


TIME.  69 


The  Commonwealths  that  stand 
Upon  the  ruins  of  departed  thrones 
Shook  to  their  centre  by  thy  mighty  hand, 

Startle  kings'  sleeping  bones. 

And  as  thy  years  wax  old, 
Shall  new  Republics  struggle  into  birth, 
But  thou  shalt  set  thy  foot  upon  the  mould 

Of  all  that  spring  of  earth. 

Oh,  mighty,  tri-crown'd  King  ! 
Is  there  no  limit  to  thy  vast  domain  ? 
Dethroned  one  !  I  see  thy  victims  spring 

To  quickening  life  again  ! 

Empyreal  and  pure, 

O'er  thy  forgotten  splendor  burns  a  throne, 
While  circling  round  it,  ages  that  endure 

Make  thy  lost  ones  their  own. 

And  to  each  human  soul 
Thy  being  cradled  in  his  pulse's  beat, 
Whene'er  its  solemn  measures  cease  to  roll 

That  great  reward  shall  meet — 


70  TIME. 

If  it  hath  nobly  stood, 

And  battled  for  the  truth,  nor  mourn'd  thy  sway, 
Lived  for  great  purposes,  and  firmly  good 

Waited  the  perfect  day. 

Up,  up  to  duty  then  ! 

Enduring  patience- work  will  soon  be  o'er, 
And  stricken  from  the  fellowship  of  men, 

Time  is,  for  us,  no  more. 

1845. 


SEEK    FLOWERS. 


Spring  doth  all  she  can,  I  trow  ; 
She  brings  the  bright  hours, 
She  weaves  the  sweet  flowers, 
She  dresseth  her  bowers, 
For  all  below." 

BARRY  CORNWALL. 


SEEK  flowers.     I  know  that  the  Violet's  eye 

Is  peeping  out  at  this  clear  blue  sky, 

I  know  that  the  Hyacinth's  holding  up 

In  maidenly  sheen,  its  blue-lipp'd  cup, 

I  know  that  on  yonder  water's  brink 

The  wild  Anemone  stoops  to  drink  ; 

They  have  waited  the  coming  of  Spring's  glad  hours, 

And  I  know  they  are  here. — Seek  flowers,  seek  flowers. 

Seek  flowers, — for  I  hear  the  South-wind's  shout 
Calling  his  beautiful  sweethearts  out ; 


72  SEEK    FLOWERS. 

"  Jove  !"  how  they  blush  when  he  bends  to  sip 
The  love  that  lies  on  their  velvet  lip  ; 
All  day  he  lingers  and  bathes  his  wings 
In  the  balm  of  these  radiant,  sinless  things, 
And  at  eve,  like  the  hush  of  the  blessed  God, 
Sings  them  to  rest  on  the  quiet  sod. 

Dwellers  fair  in  each  greenwood  glen, 
Bringing  delight  to  the  children  of  men, 
I  love  to  think  how  the  maid  will  twine 
Your  radiance  bright  in  her  hair's  sunshine, 
Of  the  joy  that  will  thrill  the  dear  young  child 
When  he  catches  your  forms  in  the  meadow  wild, 
How  the  aged  that  bend  'neath  affliction's  rod 
Will  smile  upon  you  and  bless  their  God. 

Early  visitants — fresh  spring  flowers, 
Ye  bring  the  promise,  in  brighter  hours, 
That  the  fragrant  Orchis  and  flaunting  Rose 
Will  tarry  with  us  to  the  summer's  close, 
That  the  Aster  will  come,  when  days  grow  brief, 
To  throw  its  smile  o'er  the  fallen  leaf, 
That  when  airs  grow  keen,  by  the  frozen  rill 
Some  bolder  trembler  will  linger  still. 


SEEK   FLOWERS.  "73 

Girl  of  my  heart !  would  you  know  a  gift 

That  will  ever  my  fainting  spirits  lift  ? 

(It  may  be  weakness,  but  list,  thou  shalt  hear, 

I  have  never  spoke  false  to  thy  earnest  ear,) 

Bind  me  a  wreath  where  thy  love  shall  lie 

With  the  fragrance,  after  its  splendors  die, — 

There  is  no  gift  of  the  seasons'  hours 

That  touches  my  heart  like  the  gift  of  flowers. 

1845. 


I  WOULD  NOT  LEARN  FORGETFULNESS. 


"  The  Past  !  ah,  we  owe  it  a  tenderer  debt, 
Heaven's  own  sweetest  mercy  is  not  to  forget." 

Miss  LANDON. 

I  WOULD  not  learn    forgetfulness  ;   the    Past  too  bright 

hath  been, 

For  me  to  throw  oblivion's  pall  on  every  vanish'd  scene  : 
The  bright,  blue  face  of  heaven,  the  breeze  that  used  to 


With  its  unseen  fingers  in  my  hair,  through  all  the  live 

long  day, 
The  glad  and  blessed  sunshine  that  seemed  the  smile  of 

God, 
And  the  flowers  that  sat  like  diamonds  around  the  path  I 

trod, 
The  fair-eyed  dawn,  the  glowing  day,  the  sunlit  clouds 

of  even, 
That  hung  like  wings  of  angels  o'er  the  battlements  of 


1   WOULD   NOT   LEARN   FORGETFtTLNfiSS.  75 

I  would  not  learn  forgetfulness  ;  I  would  rather  learn 

the  art 
OF  binding  all  these  golden  links  more  closely  round  my 

heart ! 


I  would   not  learn  forgetfulness  j  though  I've  sunder 'd 

many  a  tie, 
I  could  not  bear  to  lose  sweet  friends  that  only  droop  and 

die ; 
Our  family  chain  hath  perished  !  but  it  seems  not  thus 

to  me, 
For  the  world  but  count  the  living  links,  and  they  are 

only  three  ; 
The  rest  they  say  are  gone,  but  I  think  they're  with  me 

still, 

Their  voice  is  in  the  summer  breeze,  and  in  the  tink 
ling  rill, 
In  the  mellow  hush  of  evening — in  the  solemn  hour  of 

night, 

They  seem  to  hover  o'er  me  all  radiant  and  bright, 
And  whether  they  are  here  or  not,  I  do  not — do  not  know, 
But  I  would  not  learn  forgetfulness  ;  for  mem'ry  makes 

it  so, 


76  1   WOULD   NOT   LEARN    FORGETFULNESS. 

I  would  not  learn   forgetfulness ;  oh,  I  could  not  bear 

my  lot, 
If  the  woof  the  Past  has  woven  should  be  broken  and 

forgot, 

If  o'er  the  paths  of  manhood  where  I  daily  trudge  along, 
Some  dear  remembrance  did  not  rise  and  wake  my  heart 

to  song, 

If  when  the  star-eyed  flow'rets  spring  up  around  my  way, 
I  did  not  sometimes  think  of  one  as  beautiful  as  they, 
If  when  the  skies  bend  o'er  me  with  such  a  mellow  hue, 
I  did  not  gaze  into  an  eye  of  just  as  sweet  a  blue, 
Let  those  whose  hearts  are  withered  sing,  "  Oh,  teach  me 

to  forget  !" 
My  life  hath  been  too  golden,  I  cannot  sing  thus  yet. 


I  would  not  learn  forgetfulness ;  the  spell  that  mem'ry 

flings 
Across  my  heart  is   like   the   sweep   of  angels'  silken 

wings  ; 
'Tis  of  summer  clouds  and  sunshine — of  the  songsters 

and  the  breeze, 
Of  the  silver  moon  and  starlight — of  the  blue  wave  lit  by 

these ; 


I    WOULD    NOT    LEARN    FORGETFULNESS.  77 

'Tis  of  a  gentle  maiden  in  her  beauty  and  her  pride, 
That  like  a  guardian  angel  sits  ever  by  my  side, — 
I  never  tasted  sorrow — let  those  who  have  complain, 
I  would  gladly  number  over  those  halcyon  days  again  ; 
I  would  not  learn  forgetfulness ;  I  would  rather  learn 

the  art 
Of  binding  all  these  golden  links  more  closely  round  my 

heart. 

1844. 


LINES    WRITTEN    IN    A    STORM 


BID  thy  destroying  angel  pass, 

We  crouch  beneath  its  wing  of  fear, 

Let  thy  avenging  thunders,  God ! 

Stoop  harmless  round  thy  children  dear. 

We  are  an  humble  family  band, 
We  have  no  lofty  hope  or  aim, 

We  are  content,  although  our  praise 
May  never  fill  the  ear  of  fame. 

We  cannot  tell  Thee  all  we  have — 

The  blessings  each  new  moment  brings  ; 

Health,  or  if  sickness  come,  thy  dove 
Sent  down  with  healing  on.  his  wings. 

Wealth,  not  such  as  the  world  would  call, 
We  are  not  rich  in  gold  or  soil, 

But  we  have  hearts  to  work,  and  Thou 
Dost  smile  upon  our  humble  toil. 


LINES   WRITTEN    IN   A   STORM.  79 

Friends,  our  full  hearts  may  never  say 
What  garner'd  stores  of  love  they  hold ; 

Thou  hast  not  doom'd  them  yet  to  bear 
The  treach'ry  of  the  false  and  cold. 

Hopes,  Father,  Thou  dost  know  all  these, 
For  we  have  hung  them  on  thy  heart, — 

Regard  from  all  the  good  and  wise, 
And  tremblings  for  "  the  better  part." 

Bid  thy  destroying  angel  pass, 

Let  thy  white  wing  descend  and  keep 

Its  shadow  close  around  our  store — 
Guard  us,  Almighty  !  while  we  sleep. 

Oh  sweet-soul'd  God !  one  spirit  star 
Hath  issued  from  thy  radiant  breast, 

And  from  her  dreamful  throne,  the  moon 
With  mildest  glory  floods  the  west ! 

The  whirlwinds  trail  their  banners  home, — 
Smile  out  all  heaven's  fair  company — 

Lie  down ;  ye  see  the  morrow  morn 

Who  dwell  beneath  this  roof  with  me  ! 
1846. 


TO    A    STAR. 


FAIR  wanderer,  that  through  yonder  blue 
Thy  silent  course  for  aye  hast  trod, 

Thou'rt  kindling  now,  as  thy  first  hue 
Fell  burning  from  the  hand  of  God. 

Undimm'd — unwasted — though  thy  race 
With  earth's  primeval  course  began ; 

Time  blots  thee  not  from  Heaven's  face, — 
Fond  watcher  o'er  the  hopes  of  man. 

Still  the  same  look  thy  coming  wears 
To  the  young  child  that  drinks  thy  light, 

And  to  the  sire  whose  rev'rend  hairs 
Thou  tingest  with  a  softer  white. 

Fair  orb,  what  difFrent  eyes  will  be 

Turn'd  on  thy  face  ere  morning's  dawn  ! 

What  joys,  what  sorrows  wilt  thou  see, 

What  bursting  hopes — what  pleasures  gone  ! 


TO    A   STAR.  81 

He,  as  the  sage  of  Chaldea's  lore, 
Who  reads  thy  bright  page  as  a  book, 

This  night,  to  add  to  learning's  store, 
Will  bend  on  thee  an  earnest  look. 

He,  who  beholds  thee  as  the  eye 

Of  her  on  whom  his  love  is  flung, 
Will  call  up  tender  scenes  gone  by, 

And  words  that  to  his  heart  have  clung. 

The  watcher  by  the  bed  of  pain 

Will  sadly  view  thy  kindling  fire, 
And  turn,  and  turn  his  gaze  again, 

Glad  when  thy  trembling  beams  expire. 

And  there  will  be  who  lift  the  eye 

Of  warm  devotion  unto  thee, 
And  muse  some  simple  song  as  I, 

To  lure  the  heart  from  misery. 

i 
Or,  in  your  brightness  as  you  tread, 

Alike  through  calm  and  storm,  your  way, 
Will  feel  strong  hopes  around  him  shed, 
And  bend  him  on  his  knees,  and  pray, 
5 


82  TO   A   STAR. 

Almighty  Father  !  as  yon  star 
Be  this  vain  life  in  thy  command, 

Oh  !  keep  it  safe  'mid  passion's  war, 
To  blaze  at  last  in  thy  right  hand. 

1844. 


SONNET.  — DESPONDENCY. 


I  FEEL  a  weariness  of  mortal  life — 

A  shaking,  almost,  of  my  trust  in  God  ; 
Is  this  the  harvest  of  my  years  of  strife, 

To  keep  from  dying  what  I've  cast  abroad  ? 
If  I  have  err'd  when  that  I  deem'd  was  given 

To  me  a  message  from  on  high  to  speak, 
Or  if  the  thoughts  that  in  my  breast  have  striven, 

Have  been  trick'd  out  in  language  all  too  weak, 
I  know  not.     Merciful  God  !  my  offspring  lie 

Poison'd  with  venom  from  the  snakes  that  crawl 
Around  their  path,  while,  as  the  pelican,  I 

Revive  with  heart-blood,  and  sustain  them  all ; 
And  I  am  weary  in  my  youth  of  years, 
Of  struggling  ever  against  doubts  and  fears. 

1846. 


SONNET.  — FAITH. 


MY  senses  never  lie  amort  in  sleep, 

But  then  my  soul  builds  up  an  image  fair, 
Round  which  the  wings  of  Seraphim  that  sweep, 

Make  voiceful  symphonies  of  the  ambient  air ; 
And  like  a  wond'rous  bark  indu'd  with  mind, 

It  floats  in  glory  o'er  the  effulgent  tides, 
And  spurning  as  Phaeacian  ships  the  wind, 

Right  onward  to  its  blissful  haven  glides. 
And  so  I  know  this  is  my  bark  of  FAITH, 

Seeking  the  anchorage  of  God's  calm  heart, 
Convoy'd  by  angels,  watchful  of  its  freight, 

And  gliding  safely  to  the  heavenly  mart. 
Thus  while  "  Death's  brother  "  holds  my  clay  below, 
My  soul  doth  to  its  better  portion  go. 

1845. 


NIGHT. 


SEND  down  thy  milder  presence,  God  ! 

Let  dreamy  silence  wrap  our  earth, 
And  brightly  o'er  the  fainting  sod, 

Oh,  bid  thy  glorious  Night  go  forth  ! 

How  beautiful !  Heaven's  golden  door 
Stands  open — in  their  Jewell 'd  crown, 

Treading  yon  blue  Empyrean's  floor, 
The  company  of  stars  look  down. 

A  gauze-like  veil  yon  hills  enfold, 
Spangled  with  rainbow  atoms — all 

Seems  like  some  glorious  tale  of  old, 
That  comes  at  Memory's  pensive  call. 

Caressingly  the  wings  of  Sleep 

Float  through  the  liquid  stillness  round ; 
A  sense  of  soothing,  blessed,  deep, 

Distils  o'er  all  the  weary  ground. 


86  NIGHT. 

The  wood-bird,  in  his  little  nest, 

Feels  the  soft  presence  on  his  wings, 

And  hearts  that  sighed  for  heaven  and  rest 
In  dreams  enjoy  these  fancied  things. 

Well  hast  thou  come  to  eyes  like  mine, 
That  fail  with  wakefulness  and  tears, 

Well  do  thy  chasten'd  beauties  shine 
Upon  my  manhood's  sterner  years. 

I  thank  thee,  Father,  for  thy  Night, 
But  deeper  thanks  I  give  for  Death, 

That  lays  its  seal  on  mortal  sight, 

Nor  wakes  to  pain  with  waking  breath. 

For  soon,  too  soon,  Imperial  Queen, 
Wilt  thou  have  trod  thy  sapphire  way, 

And  in  the  east  a  glimmering  beam 
Will  tremble  on  the  brow  of  day. 

Thy  fires  will  fade  in  deeper  light, 
Earth's  madd'ning  voices  break  again 

The  silver  stillness,  that,  all  night, 
Hung  like  a  robe  o'er  hill  and  plain. 

1845. 


FAME. 


I  HAVE  read  of  a  lonely  castle — 
A  castle  that  stands  by  the  sea ; 

Where  the  waves  that  beat  at  its  rugged  feet 
Do  mutter  dismally. 

I  have  read  of  a  beauteous  maiden 
That  looks  from  that  castle  wall, 

With  an  eye  of  star-like  brightness, 
And  a  figure  slight  and  tall. 

And  the  morning  sun  now  beameth 

On  the  castle  and  the  wave, 
And  she  utters  a  voice  that  lureth 

The  souls  of  the  high  and  brave. 

One  youth,  with  silken  ringlets, 

Is  striving  up  the  steep, — 
God  shield  thee  !   boy,  'tis  a  noble  prize, 

And  the  wave  below  is  deep. 


88  FAME. 

He  has  bow'd  to  the  fairy  maiden, 
He  has  touch'd  that  lily  hand, 

And  the  crowd  below  are  gazing  up 
Where  in  close  embrace  they  stand. 

The  moonbeams  now  are  flaunting 
The  walls  of  that  castle  gray, 

And  a  solemn  train  sweeps  through  it, 
And  the  Fathers  kneel  and  pray. 

Then  I  thought  of  another  castle 
That  standeth  full  high  to  see, 

Where  the  waters  of  Life  around  its  base 
Go  surging  solemnly. 

And  a  fairy  maiden  is  sitting  there, 
With  an  eye  on  the  rushing  main, 

And  she  utters  a  voice  that  lureth 
The  souls  of  the  brave  to  FAME. 

They  strive  when  the  morning  beameth, 
And  they  list  her  siren  call, 

Nor  think  of  the  fee  she  claimeth 
Of  the  solemn  tread  and  pall. 


FAME.  89 

The  day  on  the  castie  sleepeth, 

The  fairy  hath  pass'd  away  ; 
There  is  nothing  there  but  the  rugged  walls, 

And  a  train  that  kneel  and  pray. 

1844. 


5* 


ROOM!    ROOM! 


"  The  Editor  of  the  Baltimore  Clipper,  in  reply  to  a  correspondent, 
using  the  signature  "  Posterity,"  says, '  We  make  room  for  Posterity.'  " 

U.  S.  GAZETTE. 


ROOM  in  the  lighted  palace, 

Room  at  the  festal  board  ; 
Pass  round  the  brimming  chalice, 

Let  the  wine  be  quickly  pour'd  ; 
Room  where  bright  eyes  are  meeting, 

Where  silvery-white  arms  glance, 
Room  where  fair  forms  go  fleeting 

Through  the  mazes  of  the  dance. 

Room  in  the  halls  of  glory, 

Where  the  plume  and  bonnet  wave  ; 
Room  on  the  page  of  story, 

For  the  noble  and  the  brave ; 


ROOM  !    ROOM  !  91 

Room  on  the  field  of  battle, 

'Mid  the  clarion's  mighty  swell, 
And  the  drum's  triumphant  rattle, 

And  the  victor's  madd'ning  yell. 


"  Room  at  the  bridal  altar," 

Breathe  quick  the  solemn  vow, 
For  the  love-lip  soon  will  falter, 

And  a  shadow  cloud  the  brow  ; 
"  Room  at  thy  hearth,  oh,  Mother ! 
Room  at  thy  place  of  prayer," 
Comes  to  thy  heart  another, 
Room  for  the  trembler  there. 


Room  in  each  human  dwelling — 

White  heads  drop  round  you — see  ! 
Why  stand  ye  thus  a-knelling  ? 

Turn — turn  yourselves,  and  flee. 
Ho  !  Ho  !  with  mirth  and  laughter, 

Swell  on  the  young  and  brave, 
Room — (for  they'll  crowd  in  after) — 

Room  in  the  vasty  grave. 


92  KOOM  !  ROOM  ? 

Room  on  the  lonely  mountain, 

Room  through  the  mighty  earth  ; 
Life's  tide  from  every  fountain 

Is  swelling  into  birth, 
Crowd  on,  ye  pallid  faces — 

Crowd  onward  to  the  tomb  I 
Your  offspring  claim  your  places, 

Make  room  for  them !  make  room  I 

1842. 


ANGELS'    VISITS. 


THERE  are  moments  in  life  when  the  heart-strings  awaken 

To  pulses  of  music,  as  soft  and  as  light 
As  the  exquisite  tones  by  the  summer  wind  shaken 

From  the  leaves  of  the  rose,  ere  it  closes  at  night. 

There  are  times  when  each  idol  God  e'er  brake  before  us 
Takes  its  seat  in  the  soul,  and  is  worshipp'd  again, 

Till  we  deem  even  yet,  in  the  joy  that  steals  o'er  us, 
Their  warm  kisses  lie  on  our  lips  like  a  flame. 

For  He  took  them  away  that  their  radiant  whiteness 
No  deeper  earth-stain  than  those  kisses  should  know  ; 

And  He  lets  them  come  back  with  His  music  and  bright 
ness, 
To  lure  us  away  from  this  dark  world  of  woe. 


94  ANGELS'  VISITS. 

They  fill  up  our  silence — they  hover  around  us — 
They  walk  and  they  watch  at  our  side  as  before, 

By  every  old  haunt  where  our  infancy  found  us, 
By  every  pure  fountain  we  drank  from  of  yore. 

They  breathe  o'er  our  spirits  those  ravishing  numbers, 
Till  our  hearts  become  weary  of  meaningless  mirth, 

And  we  long  to  drop  off  our  earth-garment  that  cumbers, 
And  flee  where  the  source  of  such  music  has  birth. 

Who — who  with  a  soul  in  his  bosom  engrafted, 

Hath  ne'er  felt  its  chords  touch'd  by  spirits  from  bliss, 

Till  with  the  sweet  sense  of  the  sound  he  was  wafted 
Afar  from  a  world  so  cold-hearted  as  this  ! 


1846. 


FAYRIE-LAND. 


YE  have  heard  of  a  region  fair  and  broad, 
Where  the  seasons  know  not  decay, 

Where  the  snow-drop  sits  on  its  own  sweet  sod 

Beside  the  orchis  and  golden-rod, 
And  the  white  rose  blooms  alway. 

Ye  have  heard  it  said,  to  the  spirit's  ear, 

There  are  passionate  tones  that  call 
The  dreamer  back  to  that  strange,  bright  sphere, 
In  whose  bowers,  from  rose-scents  far  and  near, 
Most  ravishing  numbers  fall. 

For  those  flowers,  if  dreaming  bards  say  true, 

Not  only  are  fair  to  see, 
But  every  one  in  its  own  bright  hue 
Gives  out  its  portion  of  music  too, 

Unsyllabled  though  it  be. 


96  FAYBIE-LAND. 

What  mortals  have  called  the  asphodel, 

Singeth  there  a  dirge,  they  ween, 
O'er  the  lov'd  that  down  in  the  still  grave  dwell, 
And  changes  are  rung  on  the  wind-flower's  bell, 
By  the  swaying  of  hands  unseen. 

The  violet  too,  in  those  blessed  bowers, 

Tinkles  its  purple  leaves, 

And  the  hyacinth,  wet  with  the  kiss  of  showers, 
Sits  tremblingly  there  'mid  its  sister  flowers, 

And  its  exquisite  music  weaves. 

And  passing  sweet  to  the  human  heart 

Is  the  mystic  sense  they  bear, 
Of  love,  and  of  hope  that  shall  ne'er  depart, 
And  of  joy  that  the  channels  of  pleasure  start 

In  the  soul  that  is  lingering  there. 

But  know  ye  aught  of  that  pleasant  shore, — 

Doth  it  lie  beyond  the  sun  ? 
Oh  !  let  us  seek  it  and  weep  no  more — 
Let  us  press  to  our  bosom  a  hoarded  store 

Of  those  sweet  flowers  every  one. 


FAYRIE-LAND.  97 

That  land  lieth  not  where  the  lote-tree  throws 

Its  balm  o'er  our  dying  part ; 
It  is  in  the  sunshine  that  each  one  knows, 
It  is  where  the  whisper  of  kindness  blows 

O'er  the  flowers  in  a  quiet  heart. 

There  is  not  another  Fayrie-Land, 
Save  the  land  of  Love  and  Youth  ; — 

Flowers  tinkle  alone  in  one  fair,  dear  hand  ; 

They  mourn  alone  where  one  bosom  bland 
Hath  sunk  to  its  sleep  in  truth. 

1846. 


THE    VOLUNTEERS'    RETURN. 


The  remains  of  Capt.  W.  B.  Allen,  and  five  other  Volunteers  who 
fell  at  Monterey,  Mexico,  were  borne  through  the  streets  of  the  city 
of  Nashville,  accompanied  by  a  long  train  of  soldiers  and  citizens. 


WE  welcom'd  them  not  with  the  glorious  sound 

Of  the  drums,  in  a  thunderous  rolling, 
But  our  footsteps  fell  silent  and  slow  on  the  ground, 

And  the  death-bell  was  solemnly  tolling. 

Yet  proud  was  our  sorrow,  we  blush'd  not  with  shame, 
For  we  knew  that  no  ill  could  betide  them ; 

And  our  hearts  almost  wished,  as  we  thought  of  their  fame, 
That  we  lay  in  their  glory  beside  them. 

We  thought  how  they  press'd  in  the  heat  of  the  strife, 
Where  the  fire-wind  was  crisping  the  banners, 

And  how  little  they  reck'd  of  their  own  gallant  life, 
So  they  died  'mid  their  comrades'  hosannas. 


THE  VOLUNTEERS'  RETURN.  99 

We  bore  them  in  sadness — yet  bright  though  our  tears, 
Like  a  rainbow  our  triumph  was  beaming  ; 

And  we  felt  for  the  future  no  anguish  or  fears, 
Where  the  tempest  of  battle  is  streaming. 

And  we  knew  in  the  heart  of  the  country  they  lov'd 
How  the  fame  they  have  won  would  be  cherish'd  ; 

And  that  ne'er  she  would  think,  with  a  spirit  unmov'd, 
Of  her  sons  who  so  nobly  have  perish'd. 

1847. 


THE  YOUNG  MOON  ON  THE  SKY  HAS  FLUNG. 


THE  young  moon  on  the  sky  nas  flung 

Her  skirt  of  silver  hue, 
So  faint  a  beam, 
I  almost  deem 

'Twill  melt  back  in  the  blue  ; 
And  thick  stars  weave  a  mazy  tune, 

As  on  that  blessed  night, 
When  dreaming  o'  the  love  aboon, 

We  murmur'd  our  troth-plight,  sweet  girl, 

We  murmur'd  our  troth-plight. 

And,  dear,  dear  heart !  I'm  linking  now, 
Beneath  this  twilight  sky, 
A  pleasant  rhyme 
For  that  sweet  time 
Of  hope,  when  you  and  I 


THE    YOUNG   MOON,    ETC.  101 

Vow'd  wildly,  till  we  join'd  the  dead, 

That,  hand  in  hand  along, 
Our  footsteps  should  together  tread 

The  dear  old  land  of  song,  sweet  love, 

The  dear,  dear  land  of  song. 

Ah !  mind  you,  how,  when  Fate  denied 

So  blest  a  boon  as  this, 
We  gave  in  tears 
The  hopes  of  years, 

And  seal'd  them  with  a  kiss  ? 
One  last,  last  word  of  past  delight, 

As  I  hung  on  thy  breast, 
One  of  desire  we  breath'd  that  night, 

And  left  to  Heaven  the  rest,  dear  girl, 

And  left  to  Heaven  the  rest. 

Oh,  love  of  youth !  oh,  love  of  soul ! 
How  short  its  moments  seem, 

And  yet  we  feel 

Their  gladness  steal 
Through  all  life's  after  dream. 


102  THE   YOUNG    MOON,    ETC. 

Time  has  no  power  o'er  scenes  like  these, 

They  will  not  be  forgot  j 
The  heart  has  silent  memories 

The  lip  doth  utter  not,  dear  girl, 

The  lip  doth  utter  not. 

And  long,  long  years  have  pass'd  since  then, 

Nor  care  I  how  they  flee, 
So  they  contain 
The  short'ning  chain 

That  draws  me  back  to  thee  : 
For  we  shall  meet  once  more,  and  oh ! 

In  that  bright  world  of  bliss, 
The  clouds  shall  never  come,  that  throw 

Their  shadows  over  this,  dear  love, 

Their  shadows  over  this. 

1846. 


GOD  SEEN  FROM  THE  ROCK. 


"  And  it  shall  come  to  pass,  while  my  glory  passeth  by,  that  I 
will  put  thee  in  a  cleft  of  the  rock  ;  and  will  cover  thee  with  my 
hand  while  I  pass  by." 

EXODUS  xxxiii.  22. 

WHEN  the  old  Seer  who  led  the  train 

Of  Israel  to  their  promis'd  rest, 
From  Sinai's  secret  commune  came, 

Its  glow  still  burning  in  his  breast, 

God  check'd  his  idle  words,  nor  gave 
His  servant  what  he  madly  sought, 

But  hid  him  in  a  living  grave, 

Till  pass'd  what  to  behold  he  thought. 

Where  Horeb,  by  the  rod's  stern  shock, 
Was  cleft  for  Israel's  fainting  band, 

Jehovah  placed  him ; — and  the  rock 
He  cover'd  with  his  awful  hand. 


104  GOD  SEEN  FROM  THE  ROCK. 

Flam'd  the  unveiled  Brightness  by, 
Kindled  the  mountain  to  its  core, 

No  living  thing  might  see,  nor  die, 

What  heaven  and  earth  shall  flee  before. 

He  took  away  his  hand — the  Seer 

Look'd  after — goodness,  peace  and  love, 

Like  rainbows  spanning  forms  of  fear, 
Shone  on  his  robes  below,  above. 

Our  earth  is  but  a  cleft  where  God 
Doth  hide  His  children  by  His  hand, 

Till  His  majestic  steps  have  trod 
The  circuit  of  His  empire  grand. 

We  but  look  after  on  the  clouds 

That  roll  their  dust  around  His  path, 

In  tenderest  radiance  He  enshrouds 
His  attributes  of  fear  and  wrath. 

His  mild-eyed  mercy,  and  His  grace, 
Are  all  the  glimpses  He  may  give ; — 

The  splendor  of  His  Sov'reign  Face 
We  could  not  look  upon,  and  live. 

1846. 


I    NEVER    AM    SAD, 


I  NEVER  am  sad — at  the  early  dawn 

My  spirit  is  up  with  the  lark  away, 
And  it  stretches  its  tireless  pinions  on 

To  bathe  in  the  light  of  an  endless  day. 
The  spirit  that  opens  the  folded  flowers, 
And  dances  along  with  the  laughing  hours, 
That  flingeth  the  incense  of  morn  around, 
And  drinks  up  the  dew  from  the  fragrant  ground, 
That  sheds  a  rich  balm  o'er  earth,  and  through  air, 
And  filleth  Creation  every  where, 
Is  near  me — I  float  on  its  silvery  wings 
Away,  away  amid  vision'd  things  ! 
And  voices  are  round  me, — they  bid  me  be  glad  ; 
Oh  !  I  never  am  sad !  I  never  am  sad ! 

I  never  am  sad — when  the  noonday  sun 

Rolls  through  the  firmament  torrid  and  bare, 
6 


106  I   NEVER  AM   SAD. 

And  the  insects  awake  with  their  drowsy  1mm, 

Anil  float  like  ;i  pest  in  the  still,  deep  air, 
When  I  hardly  can  hear  the  waters  trill, 
And  the  shadows  lie  sleeping  on  valley  and  hill, 
Then  the  spirit  that  watches  the  gath'ring  cloud, 
And  laughs  as  he  wreathes  its  mist}-  shroud, 
That  mixes  alway  in  the  tempest's  roar. 
When  the  thunder  is  tramping  the  mountain  o'cr- 
Leads  forth  his  train; — on  the  raltling  Mast 
I  can  hear  him  rushing  free  and  fust, 
Though  I  bow  in  fear,  yet  my  heart  is  glad, — 

Oh,  I  never  am  sad !    I  never  am  sad  ! 

.  .' 

I  never  am  sad — at  the  starlight  hour 

That  follows  the  lapse  of  a  golden  day, 
When  unseen  beings  exert  their  power, 

And  call  in  my  wandering  thoughts  to  pray  ; 
When  all  but  the  voices  of  Night  arc  still, 
And  the  wind  scarce  sighs  o'er  the  lonel)  hill, 
When  the  spirit  of  slumber  descends  on  all, 
Save  the  fairies  that  trip  through  the  elfin  hall, 
And  beauty  that  whirled  in  the  mazy  dance, 
Lies  softly  dreaming  of  young  Romance — 


I   NEVER   AM   SAD.  107 

Those  beings  glide  by  as  I  bend  my  knee, 
And  they  whisper  their  soothing  words  to  me — 
They  bid  mo  rejoice,  and  their  tones  are  glad  ; 
Oh,  I  never  am  sad  !  I  never  am  sad ! 

1842. 


ALL    ABOUT    LOVE. 


PLAGUE  take  the  sex  !  I've  tried  my  best 

To  put  love  under  ban, 
There's  one  girl  haunts  my  fancy  still 

Do  every  thing  I  can, 
And  then  to  court  her — why,  'twere  death 

To  such  a  modest  man  ! 

There  are  so  many  mortal  ways 

To  move  a  woman's  will, 
That  hang  me,  if  I  hardly  know 

Which  shows  the  greatest  skill ; 
And,  having  tried  them  all,  to  fail 

Is  quite  a  bitter  pill. 

First  then,  there's  throwing  all  the  soul 

Upon  the  "  weaker  part," 
And  getting  fool'd,  and  blubbering 


ALL    ABOUT    LOVE.  109 

About  a  broken  heart, — 
But  a  fellow  never  tries  this  way, 
If  he  is  very  smart. 

Men  oftener  ply  the  female  heart 

With  stuff  to  suit  the  times, 
Some  madcap  fellows  try  to  melt 

Its  bars  with  burning  rhymes, 
But  far  the  greater  portion  grease 

Its  locks  with  "  oil  of  dimes." 

But  if  you're  not  a  Poet,  nor 

In  cash  or  credit  strong, 
And  feel  a  tender  care  to  know 

How  your  case  will  come  on, — 
"  I  leave  you  here  a  little  book 

For  you  to  look  upon." 

You'll  walk  out  on  a  moonlight  night, 

In  summer  or  in  spring, 
Get  "  out  of  soap,"  and  may  be  ask 

Your  lady-love  to  sing, 
And  if  you  are  a  verdant  youth, 

You'll  hint  about  a  ring. 


110  ALL   ABOUT   LOVE. 

And  if  she  gently  lets  you  put 

It  on  her  finger  fair, 
You'll  clasp  her  hand,  and  vainly  think 

Your  heart  is  in  her  care ; 
The  next  time  that  you  meet,  your  ring 

Will  be — the  Lore?  knows  where ! 

She  knew  you  loved  her  as  a  friend, 

It  never  cross'd  her  mind 
You  had  intentions  of  the  sort, — 

She  hopes  you'll  treat  her  kind, — 
And  so  you'll  walk  off  very  like 

A  man  that  "  goes  it  blind." 

Your  first  love  over,  next  you'll  look 
For  the  "  substantial  charms," 

You'll  dream  of  "  house  and  lot "  at  home 
And  Mississippi  farms, 

And  seek  the  golden  heir  of  these 
To  clasp  within  your  arms. 

You'll  gobble  down  her  senseless  talk, 

And  swear  'tis  wondrous  fine, 
You'll  gaze  upon  her  freckled  face, 


ALL  ABOUT   LOVE.  Ill 

And  call  its  tints  divine, — 
Till,  after  having  poppM  the  word, 
You'll  find  out  you  "  can  shine." 

•T  on  v*J  ;>;rn.q  / 
And  then  you'll  go  with  burning  soul, 

To  ask  her  stiff  Papa, 
He's  willing,  but  he  thinks  her  cash 

Should  be  secured  by  law ; — 
You'll  make  no  answer — but  you'll  feel 

Quite  sick  about  the  craw. 

-  r:T 
You'll  flirt  last  with  some  widow  in 

Her  second  "  coming  out," 
Who'll  keep  you  as  to  all  her  past 

la  most  delicious  doubt, 
Nor  be  so  vulgar  as  to  let 

Her  children  run  about. 

You'll  almost  fall  into  the  net, 

But  as  you  go  away, 
The  world  will  hint,  perhaps  you'll  have 

Her  husband's  debts  to  pay, 
That  John  and  Jim  will  plague  their  "  Pa  " 

Upon  the  wedding  day. 


112  ALL  ABOUT  LOVE. 

You'll  go  into  your  room  alone1, 

And  think  of  this  and  that, 
And  wonder  how  it  all  will  suit 

A  purse  by  no  means  "fat," 
Till,  last,  you'll  think,  you  will  not  nurse 

Somebody  else's  brat. 

And  then,  like  a  philosopher, 

You'll  calmly  quit  the  strife,. 

You'll  call  the  girls  "  sour  grapes,"  and  curse 
The  very  name  of  wife, 

And  crawl  into  your  frozen  bed, 
A  bachelor  for  life  ! 


TWILIGHT. 


GOD'S  boundless  sky  hath  stretch'd  too  far, 
This  weary  day,  beyond  my  gaze ; 

This  is  the  hour  to  muse — no  star 
Hath  kindled  o'er  yon  dusky  haze, 

That  seems  a  nearer  Heaven,  whose  hue 

Looks  tenderer  than  Day's  searching  blue. 

How  calm  the  scene — yon  waters  lie 
All  tranquil  in  their  painted  sleep, 

The  young  woods  lean  their  hearts  more  nigh 
The  beauty  of  the  glassy  deep, 

And  whisper  to  the  reeds  below 

The  dreams  of  love  that  haunt  them  so. 

It  is  not  Day — it  is  not  Night — 

'Tis  something  lovelier  far  than  all ; 

When  weird  winds  weave  a  tune  more  light, 
And  flower-s  cents  tinkle  as  they  fall, 
6* 


114  TWILIGHT. 


And  eyes  unnumber'd  wildly  glance 
Through  air,  like  gleams  of  young  Romance. 


The  wood-bird  wakes  and  starts  to  see 
Their  witch- work  sparkles  on  his  wings, 

And  turns  and  turns  suspiciously 

As  if  he  deem'd  them  harmful  things, — 

Then  folds  him  in  his  little  nest 

And  nods  upon  his  glittering  breast. 

The  angel,  that  unbars  the  gate 

Of  night,  stands  wondering  on  yon  bill, 

Nor  lets  the  burning  stars,  that  wait 
His  bidding,  inarch  the  skies  until 

His  soul  hath  drunk  the  sound  and  sight 

Of  Earth  and  Heaven's  sweet  troth-plight. 

Oh  !  when  among  the  sons  of  men, 
My  soul  grows  weary  of  their  strife, 

How,  at  such  times,  I  yield  me  then, 
To  dreams  of  purer,  holier  life ; — 

Of  life,  with  kindlier  promise  blent, 

In  mingled  love  and  duty  spent. 


TWILIGHT.  115 


And  ever,  at  this  hour,  there  seems 
One  gentle  form  to  sit  hy  me — 

The  girl  of  all  this  wild  heart's  dreams, 
Its  Time,  and  its  Eternity  ; 

And  kindly  as  God's  twilight  skies 

She  woos  me  with  her  thoughtful  eyes. 

1846. 


THE    SILENT    MINISTRY 


MANIFOLD  is  God's  Evangel, 

But  its  mightiest  forms  are  dumb, 

And  full  oft  some  silent  angel 

Preacheth  where  no  words  do  come. 


In  the  night-time,  wild  and  lonely, 
When  the  wings  of  darkness  fall, 

And  the  heart  of  sweet  stars  only 
Palpitate  on  Heaven's  wall ; — 


When,  together  vaguely  moulded 
Seem  the  sky,  the  sea,  the  ground, 

And  the  white  day  lies  enfolded, 
Like  a  lady  in  a  swound, — 


THE    SILENT    MINISTRY.  117 

Then  my  trembling  heart  that  waketh, 

Nestles  'neath  the  wing  of  Fear, 
Till  a  still  small  whisper  breaketh 

Softly  on  my  spirit's  ear. 

Though  I  know  not  all  the  meaning 

Of  the  mystic  sense  it  bears, 
Yet  a  hope  that  is  not  seeming 

Lights  the  dark  edge  of  my  prayers. 

And  a  thought,  like  that  I  cherish'd 

For  a  being  in  my  youth, 
Fills  me,  as,  before  she  perish'd, 

It  had  fill'd  me  with  its  truth. 

And  each  form  I  knew  of  brightness, 

Robes  of  sovran  lustre  wears, 
Till  my  spirit,  in  its  lightness, 

Climbs  up  to  them  on  its  prayers. 

Though  their  dumbness  seems  unbroken, 

Still  that  spirit  sees  and  hears, 
Nor  requires  the  outward  token, 

Nor  in  future  doubts  or  fears. 


118  THE   SILENT   MINISTRY. 

Blooms  my  past  life  on  my  present, 
With  the  beauteousncss  it  wore, 

As  on  dry  banks,  bloom  the  pleasant 
Flowers,  that  angel  wings  fan  o'er. 

Whether  thus  my  human  brothers 
In  the  God- word  find  a  faith 

I  know  not ; — the  hush  of  others 
To  my  heart  such  marvel  saith. 

So  my  Faith  is  inner  hearing 
Of  the  voices  mute  to  sense, 

From  Earth's  lost  ones  re-appearing 
In  "  the  great  God-light "  intense. 

I  respect  the  living  Preacher, 

Uttering  Heaven- words  to  his  kind, 

But  my  heart  finds  meetest  Teacher 
When  the  sense  is  left  behind. 

Then  I  see  the  truth  more  clearly, 
And  His  secret  things  grow  plain, 

Which,  when  sense-regarded,  nearly 
Drive  me  back  to  doubts  again. 


THE   SILENT   MINISTRY.  119 

For  the  actual  of  the  Earnest 

Makes  sweet  captive  of  the  curse, 
"  Dust  tliou  art,  to  dust  returnest," 

Which  the  sense  doth  aye  rehearse. 

And  the  darkness  rended  deeply, 

Shows  in  pure  Evangel  light 
Forms,  adown  the  Heaven,  steeply 

Floating  in  their  robes  of  white. 

With  the  Incarne  I  am  walking, 
Where  the  Faith-step  oft  hath  trod, 

On  the  Mount  of  Vision,  talking 
With  the  Silences  of  God. 


1846, 


DEATH    OF    ALLEN.* 


THE  soldier  lay  near  Monterey 

Between  the  dark  and  light, — 
And  the  smile  that  lit  his  youthful  brow, 

Illumin'd  the  Land  of  Night ; 
For  he  saw  in  his  sleep  the  squadrons  sweep 

Through  the  rush  of  the  morrow's  fight. 

He  snatch'd  from  its  sheath  his  bright,  blue  blade, 
When  the  drum  first  tapp'd  Reveil, 

And  he  saw  the  city  a  league  away 
In  the  dawn  light  dim  and  pale, 

And  the  flags  borne  on  by  the  marsh  ling  hosts, 
Like  clouds  in  a  driving  gale. 


*  Capt.  W.  B.  Allen,  of  Lawrence  county,  Tenn.,  who  was  killed 
at  Monterey,  Mexico,  Sept.  22d,  1846. 


DEATH   OF   ALLEN.  121 

He  saw  them  marching  slowly  down 

The  hill,  and  his  soul  could  feel 
A  thrill  of  awe  at  those  moving  forms, 

And  those  ranks  of  bristling  steel, — 
"  Oh,  fear  of  death  !  should  a  man,"  he  said, 

"  With  girlish  faintness  reel  ?" 

And  then,  in  a  martial  tone,  he  spake, 
"  Brave  comrades,  charge  the  foe  !" — 

Good  Heaven  !  it  was  a  glorious  sight, 
To  see  those  plumes  stoop  low, 

And  the  serried  men  with  fear  again 
Back  in  their  fortress  go. 

Rode  by  his  General  on  a  steed 

That  snufFd  the  fight  afar, 
And  swallow'd  the  ground  at  each  furious  bound, 

And  said  mid  the  trumps,  "  ha  !  ha  !" 
While  the  field,  all  round  his  reeking  path, 

Blush'd  like  Aceldama. 

Out  spake  "  Old  Rough  and  Ready  "  then, 

"  Burst  on  them  through  the  wall," — 
'Twas  answer'd  by  a  deaf  ning  roar, 


122  DEATH   OF   ALLEN. 

And  the  thundering  cannon  ball, 
And  ;<  crash,  as  when  ;»  thousand  oaks 
In  a  lonely  forest  fall. 

Then  fie  heard  a  mighty  .shout  go  up, 
Like  the  voice  of  myriad  waves, 

"Ho!  Mcxiquc  soldiers,  fill  the  breach, 
Or  be  forever  slaves,'' — 

And  the  death-wind,  like  a  tempest-blast, 
Tore  the  banners  ofl'  their  staves. 

But  the  hurricane  rush'd  on  amain, 

They  fled  like  driven  leaves, 
While  furt  and  tower  fell  crumbling  down, 

As  when  an  earthquake  (leaves, 
And  the  men  thai  guarded  them  were  "swept 

Like  icicles  "  from  their  eaves. 

Yet  still,  at  the  head  of  his  men,  he  led 
Their  steps  where  a  foe  might  seem, 

And  his  crimson  sword  in  the  seething  smoke 
Flam'd  like  n  lightning  gleam; — 

Till,  anon,  a  thunderous  roll  of  drums 
Shook  the  battle  of  his  dream. 


DEATH   OF  ALLEN.  123 

A  shout !  and  the  dreamer  knew  full  well 

'Twas  the  children  of  the  Free, 
That  were  hurling  their  cry  through  the  shatter'd  sky 

To  the  God  of  victory — 
And  his  soul  had  well-nigh  burst  its  chain 

In  its  triumphant  glee. 

A  change  swept  over  the  sleeper's  brow  ; — 

He  wecn'd  not  of  space  between 
The  battle-field  and  his  pleasant  home, — 

The  Gulf  and  the  mighty  stream, 
And  thousands  of  miles  had  all  been  pass'd 

In  the  whirlwind  of  his  dream. 

The  homestead  smil'cl  in  the  pleasant  light, 

Of  a  swecf.  September  morn, 
He  could  hear  the  crush  of  the  reapers'  hands 

Amid  the  golden  corn, — 
"  Be  still ;  distracting  thoughts,"  he  cried, 

"Of  war's  mad  folly  born." 

His  parents  stood  at  the  open  door, 
Their  words  were  few  and  meek, 
He  tried  to  tell  of  the  glorious  fight, 


124  DEATH   OF   ALLEN. 

But  his  lips  refused  to  speak ! 
And  now,  like  a  burning  seal,  they  lay 
Upon  his  sister's  cheek. 

Oh,  wealth  of  Love !  what  charm  hath  Fame, 

That  men  make  mock  of  thee  ? 
He  would  not  have  given  that  moment's  joy 

For  a  tenfold  victory, — 
But  hark !  young  soldier,  the  spell  is  broke, 

'Tis  the  drum  beats  Reveille. 

He  woke — historic  page  will  tell 
What  glorious  deeds  were  done, — 

But  woe  for  the  dreamer  !  he  hath  no  part 
Beneath  the  golden  sun  ; 

Oh  !  weep  for  that  brave  young  friend  of  ours, 
Who  a  soldier's  grave  hath  won. 

1846. 


THE   LONE   INDIAN. 


A  SHADE  had  pass'd  o'er  the  bright,  broad  sun 

Ere  he  clomb  to  his  mid-day  height, 
And  alway  through  vapors  his  fire-plumes  swum, 
And  staring  comets  came  out,  and  run 

Through  the  frighten'd  heavens  at  night. 

Each  portent  the  Indian  seers  had  read, 

When  the  winds  and  the  waves  were  whist, 
They  saw  but  the  tokens  of  woe  and  dread, 
And  they  sigh'd  for  the  peaceful  hunting-grounds  spread 
'Yond  the  margin  daylight  kiss'd. 

No  longer  the  War-God  waked  the  proud     . 

To  battle  for  victory, 

But  the  boom  of  the  cannon  long  and  loud, 
Like  Manitou's  voice  in  the  thunder  cloud, 

Had  bidden  the  Red-tribe  flee. 


120  THE    LONE   INDIAN. 

And  one  by  one  they  harl  stole  away, 

Till  there  only  was  left  a  score — 
Of  weak,  wan  women,  and  fathers  gray, 
A  chieftain  that  guarded  their  rights  alway, 

And  his  beautiful  child  of  four. 

There  was  nothing  on  Earth  he  lov'd  but  her, 

She  was  fair  as  the  summer  dawn, 
And  his  heart  was  a  silent  worshipper 
To  the  music  made  by  the  young  leaves'  stir, 

That  she  prcss'd  like  the  springing  fawn. 

'Twas  the  noontime  heat — and  she  came  and  laid 

Her  cheek  on  his  dusky  breast, 
And  strange  and  wild  were  the  words  she  said, 
While  the  fever-dream  on  her  spirit  prey'd, 

Of  the  land  where  the  wearied  rest. 

His  heart  broke  fast  while  the  Pnwwah  tried 
His  charms  on  the  sufferer's  brain. 

For  he  needs  must  think  how  her  mother  died 

Just  so  in  the  "  golden  eventide," 
And  he  knew  his  skill  was  vain. 


THE   LONE   INDIAN.  127 

A  year  pass'd  on — and  the  white  men  spread 

Their  crops  o'er  his  buried  child, — 
And  the  good  old  Posvwah  too  was  dead, 
And  the  others  had  left  him  all  and  fled 

To  a  home  in  the  distant  wild. 

He  sought  for  his  dear  old  haunts  in  vain, — 
They  had  slunk  from  his  foes'  dread  eye, 

He  saw  but  their  harvests  of  golden  grain 

Go  blushing  over  the  groaning  wain, 
And  their  homes  in  the  sunset  lie. 

"  There  is  naught  for  the  red-man  here  to  love, 

"There  is  naught  loves  him,"  sighed  he, 
"  He  has  no  friend  left  but  the  Friend  above, 
"  And  his  heart  lies  dead  with  his  smitten  dove, 
"  Must  he  turn  from  her  grave  and  flee  ?" 

I  know  not  whether  his  spirit  heard 

A  voice  from  the  cold,  cold  rime, 
But  a  pleasant  change  o'er  his  features  stirr'd, 
Like  the  smile  thai  is  waked  by  the  firs!  sweet  bird, 

In  the  beautiful  vernal  time. 


128  THE    LONE   INDIAN. 

And,  by  those  who  remember  the  deed,  'tis  said, 

That  after  the  set  of  day, 
He  open'd  the  grave  where  his  child  was  laid, 
And  tearfully  bore  in  his  arms  the  maid 

To  a  wild- wood  far  away. 

1846. 


THE    MONTAUK'S    VOW. 


"  That  way,"  said  a  friend  who  was  urging  me  to  go,  "  lies  East 
Hampton,  and  there,  stretching  far  out  into  the  sea,  is  old  Montauk, 
washed  by  the  waves  of  unknown  ages,  and  pointing  century  after 
century  its  taper  fingers  into  the  mighty  Ocean.  Here  is  the  resting- 
place  of  the  great  nation  that  faded  like  snow-wreaths  from  the  Island. 
Four  miles  east  of  Sag  Harbor,  near  the  road,  is  the  Sachem's  Hole. 
Tradition  says  that  when  the  Eagle  of  the  Montauks  was  carried  to 
his  grave,  the  bearers  rested  their  burden  here,  and  where  the  foot  of 
their  chief  stood  last  on  earth,  the  mourning  tribe  with  their  hands 
hollowed  out  the  ground." — New-  York  Observer. 


THEY  hollow'd  a  place  with  their  fingers  there, 

Where  he  bravely  fought  and  fell, — 
And  men  stood  bovv'd  on  their  bosoms  bare, 
And  women,  drooping  their  long,  loose  hair, 
As  if  bound  in  their  chief's  death-spell. 

All  still  till  the  mournful  rite  was  done, 
Then  thus  spake  "  The  Sunny  Eye," 

7 


130  THE  MONTAUK'S  vow. 

"  The  Eagle  his  home  in  the  clouds  hath  won, 
Shall  his  children  go  to  the  setting  sun, 
Where  the  Pale-face  bids  them  fly  ? 

"  Have  our  hands  grown  cold  on  the  battle-blade, 

Shall  we  fly  like  the  timid  deer  ? — 
I  have  utter'd  a  vow  for  a  dark-hair'd  maid — 
And  the  old  priest  knelt  while  the  words  were  said, 
And  the  spirits  bent  down  to  hear. 

"  For  a  white  man  came,  with  a  wound  oppress'd, 

And  the  Indian  heal'd  his  sore, — 
But  he  carried  the  girl  that  my  soul  lov'd  best, 
Ere  my  heart  had  lain  on  her  trembling  breast, 
Where  I  never  could  find  her  more. 

"  And  they  told  me  then  how  the  white  man's  God 

Would  put  out  the  ravisher's  eyes ; 
So  I  roam'd  with  the  panther  the  forest  sod 
To  find  the  path  where  his  feet  had  trod, 
And  list  to  his  doleful  cries. 

"  I  found  it  not,  and  the  maid  ne'er  came, 
To  say  if  they  told  me  true  ; 


THE  MONTAUK'S  vow.  131 

Then  I  breath'd  this  vow  from  my  heart  of  flame, 
To  be  a  curse  of  the  white  man's  name, 
For  his  after  seed  to  rue." 

He  ceased.     They  pass'd  to  the  Sachem's  grave, 

Then  turn'd  to  the  boundless  sea, — 
There  was  stifling  of  hate,  and  of  yearnings  brave, 
Must  they  leave  the  land  that  their  fathers  gave, 
Are  the  red-brow'd  men  not  free  ? 

Just  then  a  billow  went  whooping  by, 

As  if  Manitou  hurried  past, 
And  they  answer'd  the  sound  in  a  battle  cry, 
That  shatter'd  the  dome  of  the  sullen  sky, 

Like  a  rattling  thunder  blast. 

And  never  an  hour  from  that  time,  they  say, 

Hath  the  Montauks'  vengeance  slept ; 
And  the  bones  of  many  a  hard-fought  fray, 
That  bleach  in  the  light  of  their  setting  day, 
Declare  how  the  vow  was  kept. 

1845. 


HYMN    TO    THE    WIND. 


THE  power  of  silence  weighs 
Upon  this  populous  solitude,  and  the  leaves 

'Neath  the  meridian  blaze, 
Lay  their  hush'd  hearts  together,  and  the  breeze 

Summons  no  echoes  forth, 
From  Nature's  organ,  o'er  the  fainting  earth. 

Minstrel  of  air !  oh,  sweep 
The  innumerable  keys  of  its  majestic  pile, 

Till  music  wild  and  deep 
Swell  grandly  through  each  dim,  mysterious  aisle, 

And  its  full  volume  make 
The  hoar,  old  sanctuary  of  the  world  awake  ! 

I  see  the  young  leaves  stir, 
Where  thy  light  fingers  through  their  compass  run, 

And,  like  a  worshipper, 
Each  flower  bows  gently  to  the  strain  begun, 


HYMN    TO    THE    WIND.  133 

And  joyous  birds  sing  out, 
And  the  glad  waters  clap  their  hands,  and  shout ! 

Ten  thousand,  thousand  keys 
Start  cunningly  to  thy  quick,  impulsive  will, 

And  the  deep  bass  of  seas 
Moans  through  the  small,  soft  cadences,  that  still 

Weave  the  light  summer  cloud, 
And  woo  the  sweet  bud  from  its  velvet  shroud. 

Hark  !  in  the  noon-light  now, 
Fuller  and  deeper  waxes  the  refrain, 

Till  every  mighty  bough 
Of  the  great  forest  reels  beneath  the  strain, 

And  frighten'd,  overhead, 
Day,  turned  to  blackness,  shudders  in  its  dread. 

Ah  !  thou  hast  struck,  at  last, 
Thy  diapason,  and  the  thunder's  tone, 

That  leaps  before  the  blast, 
Swallows  all  other  harmonies  in  its  own  ! 

Wind-minstrel,  thou  hast  blent 
All  nature's  voices,  in  one  groaning  pent ! 


134  HYMN    TO    THE    WIND. 

How  it  doth  fill  the  nave 
Of  the  great  universe,  and  shuddering  fling 

Its  anthem  in  the  grave, 
And  now  exultingly  mount  up,  and  sing 

Where  the  faint  stars  alone, 
With  tinkling  tread,  march  round  th'  Eternal's  throne. 

Be  ye  lift  up,  oh,  gates  ! 
Ye  everlasting  doors,  dissolve  in  sound  ! 

The  mighty  chorus  waits 
To  roll  new  harmonies  through  Heaven's  profound, 

Till  its  old  cedars  nod, 
And  gladness  stir  the  calm,  wide  heart  of  God. 

1846. 


SONNET.  — POETRY. 


IT  is  a  time  to  speak.     Almighty  God ! 
Is  there  no  poet  in  the  glorious  West — 
No  tripod  set  within  one  breathing  breast — 

None  that  dares  scatter  Heaven-seed  abroad — 

No  soul  "uplifted"  that  doth  "spurn  the  sod?" 
Shall  we  thus  falter  from  our  high  behest, 
Fear  the  low  scorn  of  fools  whom  we  detest, 

And  dole  sick  couplets  for  vile  souls  to  laud  ? 

Speak,  speak !   tongue-flam'd,  speak  for  the  mighty 
dead ! 

Speak  for  yourselves,   and  make  great  thoughts  your 

thrones, 
Speak,  or  thick  curses  gather  round  your  head, 

And  children's  children  will  insult  your  bones ! 
The  blood  of  Saxon  bards  is  in  your  soul, 
Sons  of  the  sons  of  song,  let  echoes  roll ! 

1845. 


SONNET.  — THE    POET. 


WHOSO  would  be  the  Poet  of  this  age, 

Must  stand  near  God's  great  heart,  and  list  its  beat ; 
In  Bible-wisdom  he  must  be  a  sage  ; — 

We  are  grown  sick  of  jackdaws  that  repeat 
Monotonous  chatterings  about  hills  and  vales, 

Without  the  utterance  of  one  Heaven-sent  truth  j 
For  earth  is  growing  old,  and  music  fails 

To  cheer  her  now,  that  rous'd  her  lusty  youth. 
He  must  have  learn'd  to  ponder  and  to  scan 

The  Essential  Right,  so  he  may  truly  know 
Each  link  that  binds  the  failing  race  of  man 

To  God's  almightiness,  for  weal  or  woe. 
This  is  no  age  a  rhymer  sole  to  be, 
When  Time's  worn  vail  lets  through  Eternity. 

1846. 


THE    FULLER    LIFE. 


"  More  life,  and  fuller,  that  I  want  " 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

WHO  loathes  his  life  ?  This  common  air 

Is  purer,  and  this  earth  more  fair 

Than  death- winds  and  the  grave-land  are. 

Who  loathes  his  life  ?  who  pines  for  death  ? 
Who  lists  to  what  the  Tempter  saith  ? 
Who  is  so  sick  of  breathing  breath  ? 

Oh,  craziness !  when  pleasures  pall, 
Is  life  less  life,  or  God  not  all  ? 
Immortal !  whither  can  we  fall  ? 

What  if  life's  mystery  we  dread, 
Not  to  our  hearts  hath  wisdom  said — 
Run  to  death's  mystery  instead. 

7* 


138  THE    FULLER    LIFE. 

All  pain  is  separate  from  life ; 

'Tis  want  of  this  that  brings  in  strife, 

Full  being  with  but  joy  is  rife. 

We  view  that  being  only  near, 

'Tis  what  we  do  not  see  we  fear, 

We  want  "  more  life  " — a  light  more  clear. 

"  More  life  and  fuller  " — but  to  know 
The  mysteries  that  come  and  go 
In  shadows  round  us,  to  and  fro. 

Or  else  we  cling  to  earth-born  store 
Like  birds  round  some  enchanted  shore, 
Clinging,  nor  rising  evermore. 

So  dreamy  hangs  God's  quiet  sky, 

So  thick  around  earth's  fair  fruits  lie, — 

What  seem  we  ?  mere  Lotophagi. 

The  air  we  breathe — these  fruits  we  taste, 

Our  very  sense  of  being  waste, 

Ah,  fools  !  forgetting  where  we  haste. 


THE    FULLER    LIFE.  139 

More  life — to  quit  this  dreamful  strand, 
We  perish  in  this  Lotos-land  ; — 
God  !  tear  us  home  to  thy  right  hand. 

Oh,  brothers  !   speak  no  more  of  death, 
List  rather  what  the  God-word  saith, 
"Being  hangs  not  on  human  breath." 

Our  life  is  dim — from  zone  to  zone 
The  Infinite  is  round  it  thrown ; 
We  have  not  all  which  is  our  own. 

Look  with  me  on  God's  silent  night, 
Each  star  sits  in  yon  crownless  height, 
In  its  empyreal  splendors  dight  ! 

Save  one  that  pales  upon  its  pyre, 
As  if  its  mighty  heart  of  fire 
Were  failing  of  intense  desire. 

'Tis  but  sublim'd  to  thy  weak  eyes, 
As,  when  the  morning  sun  shall  rise, 
Its  sisters  will  be  in  the  skies. 


140  THE   FULLER   LIFE. 

The  winds  that  struggled  all  the  day, 
Or  kiss'd  the  flowers  in  am'rous  play, 
Where  are  they  fled  to  ?  can  ye  say  ? 

Silence  from  all  sounds  merg'd  is  wrought, 
As  from  all  hues  no  hue  is  caught — 
God  is  the  corporate  ENS  they  sought. 

All  things  are  tending  to  their  source  : — 
Why  should  we  sicken  in  the  course, — 
Give  boundless  hope  for  fearful  worse  ? 

Oh,  brothers  f  speak  no  more  of  death, 
List  rather  what  the  God- word  saith, 
"  Being  hangs  not  on  human  breath." 

What  should  we  pray  for,  but  to  be 
Merg'd  in  that  fuller  entity  ? — 
"Unclothed," — no!  "  clothed  upon,"  that  we, 

Our  mortal  with  th'  Immortal  blent, 
May  know  and  feel  what  is  unkent 
In  the  clay  house  where  we  are  pent  ! 


THE    FULLER    LIFE.  141 

Life — life  we  want,  and  freer  wings, 
To  pierce  this  hue  of  outward  things, 
This  soul-garb  of  the  King  of  kings  ! 

We  do  not  crave  Death's  leaden  rod, 
We  die  while  in  this  earthly  clod, 
We  want  "  full  life  "—the  life  of  God  ! 

1847. 


THE   CLOUD. 


As  new  and  as  pure  look'd  the  blue  of  the  sky 
As  if  God  had  that  eve  first  unroll'd  it, 

And  each  blossom  was  lifting  its  delicate  eye 
From  the  earth,  where  it  sat  to  behold  it. 


The  landscape  was  vocal — bright  birds  flutter'd  down 
Through  the  azure,  and  warbled  their  numbers, 

And  the  Day-king  had  left  on  the  mountains  his  crown, 
And  departed  in  peace  to  his  slumbers. 


How  calm  was  that  moment !  how  sweetly  unroll'd 
Lay  the  earth  on  the  bosom  of  even, — 

But  not  to  my  heart  were  its  blossoms  and  gold 
So  fair  as  one  form  in  the  heaven. 


THE   CLOUD.  143 

For  a  silver-rob'd  cloud,  where  the  bright  cheek  of  day 
With  the  kiss  of  the  sun  was  yet  burning, 

Like  a  white  sail  outspread  in  the  distance  away, 
To  its  haven  of  glory  was  turning. 

I  follow 'd  its  form  as  it  floated  along, — 

(How  deep  was  my  spirit's  emotion  !) 
And  I  thought  of  the  bark  we  are  all  guiding  on 

Through  the  depths  of  a  treacherous  ocean. 

It  melted  in  brightness — I  pray'd  as  it  rose 
That  when  life  I  am  call'd  to  surrender, 

The  sunshine  of  God  might  illumine  its  close, 
And  my  being  go  out  in  its  splendor. 

1845. 


RURAL    HYMN. 


OH,  not  alone  do  they, 
Who  crowd  in  dusty  cities,  joyance  find ; 

Heaven's  gifts  surround  our  way 
More  freely  in  the  country ; — here  the  wind 

Bends  from  the  blue  and  sings, 
All  day  in  gladness,  to  earth's  sinless  things. 

Here  sunshine  longest  dwells, 
And  the  glad  waves  go  dancing  in  its  light, 

And  the  green  grass  upswells, 
And  the  rich  harvest  stretches  on  the  sight, 

And  by  the  water's  brink 
Stoops  many  a  trembler  its  fair  form  to  drink. 

The  painted  birds  glance  through 
The  twinkling  leaves,  and  their  deep  gladness  pour, 

Or  flutter  down  the  blue 
To  hold  fond  dalliance  with  some  blushing  flower, 


RURAL   HYMN.  145 

And  harsher  sounds  ne'er  come 
Than  birds,  and  breezes,  and  the  wild  bees'  hum. 

Peace,  like  a  presence,  reigns 
O'er  all  the  hills  infold — the  dwellers  in 

God's  vast  and  silent  plains 
Hear  his  still  voice,  unbroken  by  the  din 

Of  echoing  "  steps,  that  beat, 
Like  Autumn  rain,"  the  city's  crowded  street. 

And,  therefore,  poets  say, 
"  God  made  the  country," — for  his  smile  they  trace 

On  the  blue  sky  all  day, 
And  when  the  stars  are  printed  on  its  face, 

His  audible  spirit  seems 
To  sing  a  lullaby  to  land  and  streams. 

1846. 


TO    AN    EVENING    CLOUD. 


RADIANT  dreamer  in  regions  fair  ! 

Beautiful  phantom  of  sun  and  air ! 

I  mark  thy  shape  where  thou  seem'st  to  lie 

A  deeper  sunshine  on  yonder  sky, 

Bathing  thy  form  in  all  glorious  hues, 

Drinking  the  soul  of  the  evening  dews, 

Lifting  now  like  an  angel's  wing, 

And  my  heart  doth  bless  thee — beautiful  thing  ! 

Chameleon  shape !  in  thy  changeful  shroud, 
To  what  shall  I  liken  thee — summer  cloud  ? 
Now,  as  thou  risest,  thy  robes  of  gold 
Round  thy  argent  bosom  in  beauty  roll'd, 
Stirr'd  by  naught  save  the  hymning  sound 
Of  the  orbed  ones  as  their  choir  go  round, 
Thou  look'st  a  sprite  in  th'  Empyrean  broad, 
Leaning  thy  brow  on  the  hand  of  God  ! 


TO   AN   EVENING   CLOUD.  147 

Never  a  moment  the  same — a  thought 
With  every  change  of  thy  form  is  wrought. 
Now  thou  seem'st  list'ning  the  weird-like  breeze, 
Touching  his  swift,  mysterious  keys  j 
Now  like  a  maiden's,  sovran  and  bare, 
Trembles  thy  breast  on  the  wooing  air  ; 
Now  are  thy  fleecy  robes  outspread 
Like  a  tufted  floor  for  the  young  stars'  tread. 

Changed  yet  more  !  from  thy  fiery  hand 
Thou'rt  hurling  in  terror  the  lightning  brand  ; 
Thy  robe  is  the  darkness — the  thunder  thy  tread, 
The  Earth  is  a  chaos — the  stars  are  dead  ! 
Away,  and  away  on  thy  rapid  flight ! 
Thou  art  seen  no  more  on  the  brow  of  night, 
And  naught  is  above  but  the  soft,  sweet  tune 
Of  the  low  wind  lulling  the  frighten'd  moon. 

Glorious  Spirit !  I  would  I  could  be 
In  the  Heaven  of  genius  a  thing  like  thee ; 
Bending  never  my  wing  to  earth, 
Living  each  moment  in  changeful  birth, 


148  TO    AN    EVENING    CLOUD. 

Drinking  the  bloom  of  the  blessed  throng, 
Borne  by  invisible  breathings  on, 
A  beauty  and  terror  to  mortal  eyes, 
Rushing  in  glory  to  Paradise. 

1846. 


FLOWERS. 


ARRAY'D  in  garments  of  Paradise, 
Turning  to  Heaven  your  fair,  meek  eyes, 
Mocking  the  glory  of  human  pride, 
Flinging  your  incense  on  every  side  ; 
Emblems  of  beauty,  and  types  of  love, 
Lifting  the  heart  to  its  home  above  ; 
Light  of  the  vanishing  summer  hours, 
I  bless  my  God  for  the  gift  of  flowers. 

Beautiful  visitants  ! — every  where 

Ye  come  to  lighten  the  heart  of  care  ; 

Blooming  in  palaces — idly  thrown 

In  childrens'  paths — round  the  dull  grave-stone 

Passionless — pure — in  your  robes  of  light, 

Ye  know  no  sorrow — ye  have  no  night ; — 

Pencilings  of  angel  hands  are  ye  ? 

Tell  they  their  loves  by  your  gift,  as  we  ? 


150  FLOWERS. 

Children  of  sunshine  !  doth  there  not  dwell 
Some  spirit  of  light  in  each  painted  cell  ? 
Go  they  not  out  in  beauty  and  song  ? 
Breathe  they  not  peace,  as  they  glide  along  ? 
Have  ye  no  voice,  as  stars,  that  shout 
The  rapturous  bliss  of  their  gladness  out, 
Mingling  its  music  in  mystic  tie 
With  the  soul  of  the  Earth's  rich  symphony  ? 


Vain,  oh  !  vain,  ye  are  simpler  things — 
Hope  in  the  heart  from  your  beauty  springs — 
Born  to  throw  o'er  the  quiet  sod 
The  peaceful,  visible  smile  of  God — 
Flaunting  your  robes  of  purple  and  gold, 
Drooping,  and  dying  e'er  summer  be  told, 
Pageants  of  splendor,  soon  passing  away — 
Emblems  of  Paradise — types  of  decay. 


God,  whose  smile  is  the  summer's  glow — 
God,  whose  love  is  the  gorgeous  show 
The  seasons  bear  in  their  changing  hours 
Of  varying  hues,  and  bright,  bright  flowers. 


FLOWERS.  151 

Thou,  who  givest  each  garment  fair 
The  tremblers  that  sit  by  the  streamlets  wear — 
Grant  that  my  life,  like  these,  may  be 
Adorn'd  with  the  grace  of  humility. 

1844. 


FADED    FLOWERS. 


TRUANTS  from  Paradise, 
That  in  your  glory  neither  toil  nor  spin  ! 
What  dims  the  heavenly  lustre  of  your  eyes  ? 

Ye  have  no  stain,  nor  sin. 

Clad  by  your  Father's  care 
In  robes  more  gorgeous  than  are  kings  array 'd ; 
Gayly  ye  flaunt  your  garments  on  the  air 

One  little  hour,  and  fade. 

Yearn  ye  for  Heaven  once  more  ? 
Are  there  fair  bowers  where  ye  may  bud  and  bloom  ? 
Do  angel  hands  transplant  you  on  the  shore 

Of  light  beyond  the  tomb  ? 

Or  steals  your  soul  to  breathe 
The  love  ye  symbol  to  that  world  of  joy  ? 
Do  its  bright  ones,  when  flowers  we  idly  wreathe, 

Regard  our  blest  employ  ? 


FADED   FLOWERS.  153 

Bright  gifts  of  God — can  He 
Paint  your  fair  robes,  nor  heed  you  when  ye  fade  ? 
Cares  He  not  for  his  children  ?  are  not  ye 

In  his  own  bosom  laid  ? 

Peace,  peace  !  the  self-same  hand, 
That  decks  the  lily  in  its  gorgeous  pride, 
Marks  every  trembler,  though  remote  it  stand 

By  the  still  waters'  side. 

And  when  they  bow  in  death, 
Garners  their  beauty  in  the  willing  heart, 
But  leaves  upon  them  his  own  fragrant  breath, 

When  all  their  hues  depart. 

FATHER  !  so  keep  my  life, 
Bright  in  thy  hand  each  swift-revolving  day, 
Acting  its  part  thus  meekly  in  the  strife, 

And  turn'd  to  Thee  alway  : — 

That  when  the  time  shall  come 
For  me  to  fade,  e'en  as  the  flowers,  and  die, 
Like  heavenly  fragrance  some  good  action  done, 

May  on  my  memory  lie. 

1844. 

8 


.z/av,'. ,  i  u:ic:  i 

f-   IK'f   L'r'il  K.4f  ,k       .1   '.    /!   V 

<  !i  t/;,3  T  si  i\l'h'o>" .'  i<T  :•  . 

.     .       .    .'     t..vC(,^     .      .- 

THE    WINDS. 

l  9fTUWn«i'j8  0.')   !  SOaJfJ  ," 
lu  V   il  t. 


WE  have  our  birth  where  the  shadowy  earth 

Wheels  round  through  the  yielding  air, 
In  the  atoms  she  flings  from  her  rushing  wings 

On  the  firmament  blue  and  bare  ; — 
And  the  brooding  sun,  that  quickens  each  one 

By  the  glow  of  his  sanguine  breast, 
Reels  sickly  and  dim  as  his  fire-plumes  swim 

Through  the  whirl  of  pur  wak'd  unrest. 
We  trail,  his  vermilion  o'er  heaven's  pavilion, 

And  out  of  the  home  of  dews 
We  scatter  the  stores  of  "  the  ocean  and  shores," 

And  deep  in  its  teint  infuse  ; — 
And  then  again  we  are  blowing  amain 

Our  weird-work  through  the  skies, 
Till  trembling  and  bare  of  her  mist-robe  there 

The  earth  in  his  ardors  lies. 


THE   WINDS.  155 

We  wander  at  will  by  the  pleasant  rill, 

Through  the  livelong  summer  day, 
And  loosen  the  curls  of  the  dark-eyed  girls, 

In  our  wild  and  wanton  play ; 
We  call  from  the  frore,  sleeping  earth  her  store, 

We  poise  o'er  the  hyacinth's  bell, 
And  the  sweet  eclipse  of  the  violet's  lips 

We  woo  till  it  feels  the  spell, 
And  rock'd  in  our  arms  its  dainty  charms 

It  gives,  as  a  maiden  gives, 
When,  with  never  a  sigh,  she  hath  stay'd  her  eye 

On  him  in  whose  love  she  lives. — 
The  spirits  that  glance  on  a  viewless  lance, 

When  the  noontide  glory  burns, 
We  are  wooing  in  song  till  they  scatter  along 

Rich  gifts  from  their  golden  urns ; 
And  so  all  the  while  of  the  heaven's  blue  smile, 

We  float  on  a  languid  wing, 
And  murmur  and  creep  where  the  rose-scents  sleep, 

And  the  crystal  wavelets  spring. 


We  weave  the  shroud  of  the  tent-like  cloud, 
And  pillow  it  on  our  breast, 


156  THE    WINDS. 

When  it  seems  to  lie  in  the  gold-lit  sky, 

Like  a  white- wing'd  dove  at  rest ; 
And  the  radiant  hair  of  the  sunset  fair 

We  toss  on  its  blooming  side, 
Till  it  blushes  as  red  o'er  the  Day-god's  bed, 

As  blushes  a  new-made  bride, — 
And  all  the  night  by  the  faint  starlight, 

With  our  nursling  in  our  arms, 
We  are  waiting  the  spell  of  the  spirits  that  dwell 

In  the  smile  of  the  Storm-king's  charms. 
And  when  the  rack  of  their  hurrying  track 

Glides  into  the  cloud's  dark  pall, 
We  wing  the  beam  of  the  fiery  stream 

That  mortals  the  lightning  call ; 
And  the  dim  orbs  reel  as  the  burst  they  feel, 

And  groaneth  the  dark  earth  under, 
While  we  follow  after  with  roaring  laughter 

The  genii  that  call  in  thunder. 
The  shadowy  arch  of  their  fiery  march 

Like  a  shriv'ling  parchment  flies, 
But  we  batter  its  woof  till,  no  longer  rain-proof, 

It  drops  from  the  vaulted  skies, 
And  while  it  distils  o'er  the  plains  and  hillls 

Its  treasures  of  hail  and  rain, 


THE    WINDS.  157 

We  are  strewing  the  trees  with  our  wings  and  these 

As  a  thresher  strews  the  grain ; — 
And  then  through  a  rift  in  its  horrible  drift 

We  seek  the  Empyrean's  breast, 
And  whistle  a  tune  to  the  "ragged  moon," 

In  her  ghostlike  garments  drest, 
Till  her  turning  pole  with  a  golden  roll, 

Spins  steeplier  down  the  west. 


We  sail  o'er  the  sea  where  the  mariners  be, 

Guiding  their  sprite-like  vans, 
And  dreaming  of  home,  as  they  wearily  roam, 

Are  cursing  the  sun  and  calms, — 
We  hollow  the  deep  for  the  Ouphes  that  sweep 

Through  coral  groves  bright  and  rare, 
To  lure  by  the  rays  of  their  moonstone  gaze 

The  dead  to  their  slumbers  there ; 
While  the  damned  wail  of  the  sea-maids  pale 

Roars  blank  through  each  cavern  wide, 
And  the  dulse  is  seen  o'er  the  changeful  green 

To  weep  in  a  blood-red  tide  j 
Till  the  surging  sound  of  the  waves  around 

Closes  over  the  dead  and  these, 


158  THE    WINDS. 

And  won  by  the  love  of  the  Fire-god  above, 
We  are  lulling  the  angry  seas, 

That  the  calmed  brine  in  his  sweet  sunshine 
Lies  still  as  a  pulseless  breeze. 


O'er  valley  and  hill  by  a  boundless  will, 

Through  clime  and  through  time  we  go, 
And  the  stores  of  the  main  we  scatter  again 

In  water,  and  hail,  and  snow. 
Rich  odors  we  bear  from  the  vineyards  rare — 

Disease  from  the  fev'rish  zone ; 
We  mingle  our  song,  as  we  sweep  along, 

With  the  laugh  and  the  dying  groan. 
We  scatter  the  seeds  o'er  the  earth  that  breeds, 

We  watch  for  the  opening  flower, 
And  feed  it  with  dew  *  when  its  heart  is  new, 

And  fondle  it  every  hour, — 
The  Harmattan  blast  that  scorcheth  past 

The  fierce  Euroclydon, 
And  the  Samiel  are  the  robes  we  wear, 

When  our  fury  driveth  on. — 

"  And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  dew." — SHELLEY. 


THE   WINDS.  159 

From  pole  to  pole  like  a  fiery  soul, 

Hath  our  fearfal  presence  been, 
And  ye  hear  our  sound,  but  where  we  are  bound, 

No  mortal  hath  told,  we  ween. 


1847. 


THE    RAINBOW. 


"  Theme  of  primeval  prophecy, 
Be  still  the  poet's  theme." 

CAMPBELL. 

It  left  my  fall  sonl  like  the  wing  of  a  doye, 

All  fluttering  with  pleasure,  and  flattering  with  lore." 

AMELIA. 


THE  sunshine  smiled  out,  like  the  Being  who  made  it, 
In  peace  o'er  the  face  of  that  rapturous  scene, 

And  the  landscape  looked  fresh  as  if  God  had  array'd  it 
That  eve,  for  the  first,  in  its  mantle  of  green. 


The  clouds  that  the  thunder- wind  all  day  had  driven, 
Were  tow'ring  like  pillars  of  fire  in  the  west, 

And  betwixt  their  huge  forms,  by  Omnipotence  riven, 
Look'd  out  the  sweet  blue  from  the  land  of  the  blest. 


THE    RAINBOW.  161 

'Neath  the  wing   of  the  light  breeze   the  foliage  was 
dancing, — 

Like  atoms  of  sunshine  amid  the  dark  trees, 
Bright  birds  in  the  plumage  of  heaven  were  glancing, 

Till  the  forest  all  flutter'd  with  rain-drops  and  these. 


I  was  lone  and  dejected, — the  evil  words  spoken 
Of  the  songs  that  the  Minstrel-boy  lightly  had  sung, 

Had  o'erwhelm'd  me,  and  deeply  I  yearn'd  that  some 

token 
Of  love,  and  of  hope  to  my  soul  might  be  flung. 


As  I  scornfully  turn'd,  in  most  exquisite  sadness, 
To  cover  each  beautiful  thought  with  a  shroud, 

I  was  melted  to  tears  by  a  vision  of  gladness 
That  rose  to  my  view  on  the  face  of  the  cloud. 


For  lovelier  far  than  the  bright  hues  of  even 
Were  its  tints  interwoven  with  infinite  grace, 

As  her  mirror  reflection  held  up  in  the  heaven, 
And  the  smile  of  the  Deity  beam'd  on  its  face. 

8* 


162  THE   RAINBOW. 

Oh  !  'twas  glorious  to  see  it  thus  calmly  unfolded, — 
Like  the  thought  of  a  poet  it  sprang  into  birth, 

And  it  stood  like  a  fabric  his  fancy  had  moulded, 
Its  key-stone  in  heaven,  its  base  on  the  earth. 

The  birds  dimm'd  its  bright  disk,  all  joyously  singing, 
As  they  fled  with  the  tidings  to  heavenly  bowers ; 

While  beneath  it  fair  spirits  from  gold  urns  were  flinging 
Their  sweetest  of  fragrance  and  fairest  of  flowers. 

As  I  gazed,  like  a  child,  on  the  radiant  vision, 

Like  the  thoughts  of  a  child  came  my  memories  sweet, 

And  I  dream'd  yet  once  more  of  the  prospects  Elysian, 
And  "  the  treasures  of  gold  "  that  were  hid  at  its  feet. 

How  fl  utter 'd  my  heart  for  awhile  with  emotion  ! 

As  each  fancy  of  childhood  rose  bright  on  my  view, 
Till  it  melted  away  in  yon  limitless  ocean, 

And  my  dreams,  with  the  rainbow,  had  fled  away  too. 

I  know,  oh,  I  know  that  my  future  existence 

Will  be  link'd  with  full  many  a  moment  of  pain, 

Yet  I  would  not  shrink  back  from  one  hour  in  the  distance, 
How  lonely  soe'er,  could  I  dream  thus  again ! 


THE    RAINBOW.  163 

But  sweeter,  far  sweeter,  the  promise  it  left  me, 

For  my  God  in  those  bright  tints  spake  thus  to  my  fears, 

"  When  I've  smitten  thy  pride,  and  of  friends  have  be 
reft  thee, 
Look  up  !  and  my  rainbow  III  paint  from  thy  tears." 

1845. 


LINES   TO  S- 


LADY  !  I  will  not  wear 

A  beauteous  seeming ;  I'll  be  false  no  more — 
Here,  on  thy  gaze,  this  madden'd  heart  I'll  tear, 

Even  to  its  very  core. 


My  song  shall  be  wrung  out 
In  bitterness,  and  to  the  base  world  cast : 
Why  care  I  longer  for  its  envious  shout, 

More  hollow  than  the  blast  ? 


Have  I  not  spoke  sweet  words 
Of  hope,  and  memory,  and  woman's  trust  ? 
Have  I  not  chanted  like  the  summer  birds 

Lays  for  its  ear  of  dust  ? 


LINES   TO   S .  165 

Have  I  not  tried  to  wake 
Its  dull  heart  into  action  ?  have  I  not 
Made  life  and  love  their  holiest  image  take — 

God  !  only  for  the  sot  ? 

The  world  is  false — not  I, 
For  I  have  thrown  most  precious  jewels  forth, 
And  in  my  heart  far  costlier  offerings  lie, 

Like  gems  within  the  earth. 

9 

And  'twas  within  that  heart 
To  sing  more  sweetly  than  I  yet  had  sung ; 
But  I  have  felt  its  tend'rest  fibres  start — 

Lady,  it  is  unstrung  ! 

I  tell  thee  I  have  yearn'd 
For  love,  nor  found  it ;  like  a  steadfast  flame, 
Consuming  but  itself,  my  soul  hath  burn'd 

Fox  the  bright  goal  of  Fame. 

I  threw  myself  away 
To  be  a  driveler  for  the  world's  applause  ; 
I  moulded  my  soul's  visionings,  till  they 

Look'd  like  material  laws. 


166  LINES   TO    S . 

I  would  have  given  all — 
Yea,  all  the  promise  that  this  fond  life  hath, 
But  to  be  borne  'neath  Genius'  awful  pall, 

With  glory  round  my  path. 

I  dream  no  more  of  this, 
Nor  will  I  wake  those  earnest  songs  again  ; 
I  am  a  candidate  for  common  bliss, 

And  that  with  common  men. 

• 
Yet  did  I  think  that  Love, 

The  pure,  the  truthful,  was  not  all  a  name  ; 
I  have  been  taught  it  dwells  in  realms  above — 
'Tis  emptier  here  than  Fame. 

1  treasur'd  in  my  soul 

The  smiles  that  to  my  youthful  days  were  dear ; 
Love  was  not,  long  ere  I  had  reached  its  goal, 

And  now  I  can  but  sneer. 

I  heard  my  friends  revil'd, 
Till  the  blood  mounted  to  my  burning  cheek  ; 
I  saw  contempt  when  they  who  wore  it  smil'd — 
And  now  I  can  but  speak. 


LINES   TO   S .  167 

Oh,  we  are  fools,  in  sooth ! 
Our  very  hearts  are  pander'd  for  a  smile  ; 
Reckless  we  barter  innocence  and  truth 

For  this  world's  luring  guile. 

Then  why  should  Poet  sing 
Of  love,  or  cover  treach'ry  with  a  mask  ? 
Backward  the  world  these  precious  offerings  fling. — 

Heart,  to  thy  solemn  task ! 

The  task  to  gather  up 

Thy  mock'd  oblations  on  a  senseless  shrine. — 
Thanks !  for  this  once  there  has  no  painted  cup 

Been  given  from  hands  of  mine. 

I  would  I  had  been  born 
With  treble  my  endurance — that  my  heart 
Could  lift  itself  above  the  base  world's  scorn, 

Nor  feel  its  love  depart. 

Lady,  thou  canst  not  know 
How  very  soon  my  dreamings  will  expire, — 
How  soon  their  madden'd  memories  I'll  throw 

Upon  the  quivering  lyre. 


168  LINES   TO   S- 


I  will  not  be  the  slave, 
To  pander  thus  my  soul's  unvalued  store — 
Thought — feeling, — sooner  dig  thyself  a  grave, 

And  rot  for  evermore. 

Old  man  !  thy  heart  of  dust  j — 
I'll  give  thee  for  it  all  my  hope  of  days. 
Child  of  ambition,  pride,  and  worldly  lust — 

Would  I  could  rest  always  ! 

1845. 


"PONDER   BOLDLY." 


"  Ponder  boldly,  'tis  a  base 
Abandonment  of  reason  to  resign 
Our  right  of  thought."  BYKOW. 


IN  the  clashing  of  opinions, 

Young  men  !  seek  some  lofty  aim  ; 
Be  not  ye  the  crouching  minions 

To  a  selfish,  vaunted  name. 
Proudly  burst  the  iron  fetters 

Superstition  loves  to  bind — 
What  are  creeds  but  dreamy  letters  ? 

Live  for  God — the  truth — thy  kind. 

Truth,  though  pure  and  Heaven-descended, 
God  makes  free  to  all  that  seek ; — 

Ye  are  Priests  in  union  blended 
With  its  Author — dare  to  speak  ! 


170  "  PONDER    BOLDLY." 

Priests  at  its  great  Inquisition, — 
Scorn  all  other  slavish  bands  ; 

Priests  by  loftier  imposition 
Than  the  laying  on  of  hands. 


"  Ponder  boldly,"  dare  ye  stifle 

"  Truth's  high  promptings,"  and  the  heart 
Of  its  holiest  yearnings  rifle, — 

Will  ye  act  the  coward's  part  ? 
What's  Tradition  but  a  story ! 

What  are  sects  but  idle  dreams ! 
Ponder,  till  Truth's  dawning  glory 

Through  their  darkness- brightly  beams. 


Sect  or  Party — whatsoever 

Standard  others  choose  to  bear — 
Think  !  the  earnest  soul  was  never 

Satisfied  with  empty  air ; 
And  though  many  a  bosom  tender 

Fail  you  in  this  trying  hour, 
Be  ye  only  Truth's  defender, 

God  himself  will  give  you  power. 


"PONDER  BOLDLY."  171 

When  ye  hear  the  lute  Temptation, 

Be  your  brow  with  thought  o'ercast, — 
What  is  wealth  or  gorgeous  station 

To  a  truthful  heart  at  last  ? 
"  Ponder  boldlyj"  rest  unshaken, 

Though  your  cause  should  seem  to  fall, — 
Truth  but  slumbers — 'twill  awaken, 

Ye  shall  stand  by  error's  pall. 


Shrink  not  from  your  stern  high  duty 

When  delirious  words  ye  hear ; 
Worship  neither  wealth  nor  beauty, 

Stricken  hearts  they  cannot  cheer. 
Seek  some  high  and  noble  spirit, 

Costlier  than  all  beside, 
She  that  burneth  to  inherit 

All  your  power,  and  hope,  and  pride. 


Young  men !  tirm  yourselves  for  action,- 
See,  they  come,  life's  motley  crowd  ! 

Stand  before  each  rival  faction 
Independent,  fearless,  proud ! 


172  "PONDER  BOLDLY." 

"  Ponder  boldly,"  act,  or  cherish 

Yearning  thoughts  and  hopes  no  more, 

Anchorless  your  bark  will  perish 
Ere  it  toucheth  Heaven's  shore. 

1845. 


THE    CLOSE    OF    SUMMER. 


'TWAS  the  last  eve  of  summer — the  sun  had  gone  down, 
And  had  left  on  the  mountains  his  robe  and  his  crown, 
And  the  hues  of  their  glory  still  flash'd  in  the  sky, 
Till  the  moon  and  the  stars,  that  were  riding  on  high, 
Caught  up  the  bright  links,  and  each  orb  dancing  on, 
Came  out  in  fair  garments,  and  burst  into  song, 
While  the  Spirit  of  Fragrance,  yet  roaming  about 
Through  the  earth  and  the  air,  pour'd  its  offerings  out. 


I  mus'd  on  the  scene — 'twas  surpassingly  sweet — 
The  gold-spangled  verdure  that  slept  at  my  feet, 
The  bright,  dewy  watchers  that  hung  in  the  sky, 
And  each  fair  little  cloud  that  went  blushingly  by, 
While  the  winds  as  they  pass'd  sent  their  melodies  out, 
And  the   wild-warbling   waves  answer'd  back   with   a 
shout. — 


174  THE   CLOSE   OF   SUMMER. 

'Twas  enchanting. — My  spirit  scon  wander'd  away 
To  bathe  in  the  fragrance,  and  melt  in  the  ray, 


When  a  vision  rose  up,  and  I  deem'd  that  it  woke 
From  the  last  breath  of  summer  these  words,  that  were 

spoke  : 

"  Why  heed  we  Time's  flight,  when  it  bears  us  along 
Down  the  stream  of  a  life  full  of  sunshine  and  song, — 
When  the  voice  of  the  Past  calls  no  memory  back, 
To  throw  its  dark  shade  o'er  the  joy  of  our  track, 
When  the  hearts  that  we  lov'd,  'neath  the  warm  skies  of 

June, 
Preserve  in  December  their  sweetness  of  tune  !" 


I  mus'd — it  was  only  the  song  of  my  soul, 
Bidding  dreams  of  the  Past  o'er  its  dark  waters  roll, 
Calling  up  each  sweet  scene  that  my  infancy  knew, 
Each  smile  that  was  guileless,  each  heart  that  was  true ; 
'Twas  Mem'ry,  dividing  the  links  of  my  life, 
And  showing  those  free  of  its  sorrow  and  strife, 
In  my  aching  breast  causing  the  tempest  to  cease, 
And  bending  above  it  the  rainbow  of  Peace. 


THE   CLOSE   OF   SUMMER.  175 

>Twas  the  echo  of  youth,  when  my  spirit  was  glad, 
And  bright  eyes  were  round  me — how  could  I  be  sad  ; 
When  the  being  I  lov'd  in  her  brightness  and  bloom, 
Had  not  as  yet  sought  the  repose  of  the  tomb, — 
But  'neath  the  bright  star-light,  in  all  the  fair  pride 
Of  her  angel-like  beauty,  she  sat  by  my  side, 
And  heav'd  my  young  heart,  as  the  bosom  of  seas, 
When  they  lie  in  soft  dreams  of  their  lover,  the  breeze. 


I  mus'd — and  the  spirit  that  wilder'd  me  then, 
Like  the  voice  of  an  angel,  passM  o'er  me  again — 
Each  star  that  came  out  in  its  brightness  to  sing — 
Each  cloud  that  in  rapture  had  pois'd  its  bright  wing- 
Each  wave  that  came  dancing  in  song  to  my  feet, 
As  the  breezes  rode  by  and  woke  harmonies  sweet — 
And  that  angel-like  one  in  her  beauty  that  died, 
Whom  memory  brought,  and  set  down  by  my  side. 


All  woke  a  sweet  vision  of  song  and  of  fame, 
Till  I  took  down  my  harp,  and  just  touch'd  it  again  ; 
For  I  deem'd,  as  I  deem'd  in  the  spring-time  of  youth, 
This  world  was  a  world  full  of  brightness  and  truth  ; 


176  THE   CLOSE   OF   SUMMER. 

And  I  said,  as  I  then  said,  "  When  summer  goes  by 
With  its  beauty  and  fragrance,  the  time  is  to  die." 
And  the  strain  that  I  woke,  though  it  trembled  once  more 
In  the  accents  of  love,  was  not  sweet  as  before. 


And  I  said, — for  the  dream  from  my  spirit  away 

Had  pass'd,  as  had  pass'd  the  last  visions  of  day, 

"  I'll  throw  by  the  harp,  it  has  cheated  my  soul, 

And  this  heart  shall  no  more  live  beneath  its  control ; — 

Though  the  winds  and  the  waters  have  voices  for  me, 

From  the  wild  spell  of  Poesy  now  I  am  free, — 

The  world  shall  not  know  the  sweet  echoes  they  fling, 

And  this  gush  of  my  heart  's  the  last  song  that  I'll  sing." 

1844. 


SONNET.  — THE    NEW    YEAR. 


IT  will  be  as  the  old.     Winter  will  run 

His  course,  and  the  soft,  amorous  wind  come  forth 
To  hunt  for  violets,  and  the  frore  earth 
Will  put  on  daintiness — and  then  the  sun 
Will  grow  more  ardent ;  last  in  pomp  will  come 
The  solemn  Autumn.     "  God  is  good,"  and  hence 
Our  loveful  faith  in  His  great  Providence. 
And  since  'tis  He  who  orders  what  is  done — 
Who  binds  the  stars'  "  sweet  influences,"  who  guides 

"  The  ordinances  of  heaven,"  who  finds  a  path 
For  the  swift  lightning,  and  a  way  divides 

For  the  o'erflowing  waters  of  His  wrath — 
We  know  we  shall  not  be  forsaken  here, 
But  shall  have  blessings  in  the  coming  year. 

1846. 


SONNET.  — HUMILITY. 


"  What  was  it  that  ye  disputed  among  yourselves  by  the  way  ?" 

MAKE  ix.  33. 

WELL  did  they  hold  their  peace.     Meseems  His  love, 
Ineffably  tender,  on  their  pride  breath'd  so, 

"  Have  I  laid  by  my  Sonship,  and  below 

All  depth  descended,  who  wert  erst  above 

The  Hallelujahs,  that  my  soul  should  prove, 
For  ye  unshrinking  must  indeed  be  trod 
The  blood-red  wine-press  of  the  wrath  of  God, 

Ere  your  deep  sin  the  Father  will  remove  ! 
I  know  your  thoughts,  yet  fear  not  ;  as  this  child, 

Oh  little  flock  !  your  Master  will  become, 
Reviling  not  when  he  shall  be  revil'd, 

And  like  a  lamb,  when  offer'd,  will  be  dumb  ; — 

That  so,  if  ye  be  followers  of  me, 

Heaven's  brightest  crown  waits  Earth's  humility.  " 

1847. 


SONNET.  — BIGOTRY. 


"  OH,  giant  loud  and  blind  !"  great  Polypheme  ! 

Roaring  and  stamping  in  thy  dome-built  hall ; 
Wisdom  hath  robb'd  thee  of  thy  visual  beam, 

And  laughs  in  secret  at  thy  sightless  ball. 
Thou  canst  oppress  God's  sons  but  for  a  time, 

And  with  his  hapless  souls  fill  up  thy  maw  : — 
What  moment  they  but  rouse  in  Faith  sublime, 

Thou  in  their  grasp  art  as  a  withe  of  straw. 
False  brag !  thy  better  wisdom  were  to  keep 

Thy  doors  fast  barr'd,  and  watch  thy  hoarded  store, 
The  "  No-man  "  that  is  skulking  'mong  thy  sheep, 

Will  be  Ulysses  when  he  leaves  the  shore. 
Heaven  makes  us  feel,  at  times,  what  fools  we  are, 
How  its  slight  hint  exceeds  our  boastings  far. 

1846. 


CONRAD    AND    STELLA. 


[Scene.  One  of  the  Florentine  galleries.  Stella,  leaning  upon 
the  arm  of  Conrad,  is  gazing  intently  upon  a  painting.  Conrad 
speaks  musingly.] 

CONRAD. 

How  like  a  Painter's  being  is  to  God's  ! 
He  may  create  in  his  own  solitude 
Forms  that  he  loves  to  fill  it.     Outwardly 
The  semblances  may  flee,  but  in  his  heart 
Dwells  the  creation  ever,  and,  sometime, 
The  perfectness  works  out  in  future  days 
Of  first  designing. 

STELLA,  (gazing  on  the  picture.) 

'Tis  most  beautiful ! 

CONRAD. 

No  true  work  is  a  dream,  nor  is  a  thought 
Of  holy  purity  less  sure  than  God's 
To  bask  in  its  own  brightness  at  the  end. 


CONRAD  AND  STELLA.  181 

STELLA. 

I  lik'd  that  head  of  Guide's  we  just  saw, 
But  this  is  wondrous  better. 

CONRAD. 

Guido,  Fob  ! 

Rows  of  Madonnas  with  their  eyes  turn'd  up — 
All  mannerism, — 'tis  the  soul  that  paints, — 
Creates  its  like,  and  likes  what  it  creates 
With  inexpressible  earnestness  ever  on. 
Break,  heart !  if  it  may  not. 

STELLA. 

I'm  sure 

You  pointed  out  this  picture  once,  and  said 
'Twas  like  thy  child.     Look  on  it  now, — the  eye 
Is  turned  down  as  in  pity, — a  slight  curl, 
Nathless,  of  pride,  is  on  that  vermeil  lip ; 
I  spell  thy  meaning.     But,  dear  father !  say, — 
Say  once  again  those  features  are  like  mine  j 
How  beautiful !  alas  I  thou  hearest  not. 
Do  I  prate  idly,  father? 

CONRAD. 
Stella ! 


182  CONRAD  AND  STELLA. 

STELLA. 

Thou  wert  not  wont  to  call  me  by  that  name. 

CONRAD. 
What  else  then  should  I  call  thee  ? 

STELLA. 

Daughter. 

CONRAD. 

No! 

STELLA. 

And  why  ? 

CONRAD. 

The  shadows  of  old  memories 
Of  older  dreams  that  wak'dthem,  flitted  o'er 
My  brain  so  hurriedly,  that  I  forgot, 
(Pardon  my  thoughts,)  forgot  thy  presence,  child, 
And  as  I  felt  the  pressure  of  thine  arm, 
And  heard  thy  birdlike  voice,  and  saw 
Thine  image  in  that  picture,  I  forgot, 
And  would  have  called  thee  by  a  tenderer  name. 

STELLA. 

What  name  ?  what  name  ?  for  in  my  thoughts  hath 
swung 


CONRAD  AND  STELLA.  183 

A  dim  remembrance  that  thou  once  did  say 
Some  strange  fatality  had  brought  me  here. 

CONRAD. 

Probe  not  my  heart  too  deeply.     Hast  thou  heard 
The  name  of  him  whose  magic  pencil  gave 
That  canvas  eloquence,  and  made  it  speak 
Of  beauty  so  bewitching  ? 

STELLA. 

I  have  heard  but  this, 
He  was  an  outcast  boy,  who — 

CONRAD. 

Even  so. — 

And  if  thine  heart  can  nerve  itself  for  grief, 
A  moment — but  a  moment — I  will  tell 
That  boy's  sad  history. 

STELLA. 

Father  !  I  know, 

If  that  the  tale  could  injure  thy  dear  child, 
Thy  lips  would  not  repeat  it. 

CONRAD. 

I  am  he, 
The  painter  of  that  picture  ! 


184  CONRAD  AND  STELLA. 

STELLA. 

No  !  they  said 

(Who  told  me  that  boy's  history)  that  he 
Met  death  in  the  Bosphorus,  ere  his  fame 
Had  reach'd  the  ones  that  bore  him. 

CONEAD. 

Oh,  my  child ! 

'Twere  better  so,  but  'twas  not — thou  dost  mark 
The  calmness  of  my  look,  as  if  my  heart 
Had  ne'er  been  wrung  by  passion.     Stella,  I 
Was  a  wild,  visionary  boy,  and  oft 
In  dreams  work'd  out  a  destiny  for  which 
Waking  I  struggled — always  my  "  boy-hopes  " 
Yearn'd  for  one  form  of  beauty,  and  I  ne'er 
Look'd  on  the  maidens  that  hung  round  my  steps 
With  amorous  eye,  but  I  was  wont  to  stray 
To  the  lone  mountain,  and  in  airy  thought 
Worship  my  soul's  ideal  j  oft  men  chid 
My  wayward  fancy,  and  our  country's  girls, 
That  seem'd  divine  to  others,  oft  would  bend 
Their  eyes  upon  me  wooingly,  and  yet,  and  yet, 
I  loath'd  them  deeply  ;  with  my  little  book 
Of  Poetry,  that  my  own  hands  had  writ, 


CONRAD    AND    STELLA.  185 

I  stole  away,  and  to  the  list'ning  oaks 
Repeated  my  wild  songs,  nor  knew  that  ear 
Of  mortal,  save  myself,  was  nigh  to  drink 
Those  wild  imaginings. 

STELLA. 

And  was  there  ? 

CONKAD. 

One, 
But  I  had  seen  her  not. 

STELLA. 

How  knew'st  thou  then 
She  heard  them  ? 

CONRAD. 

Hear  what  happened  to  me  first, 
And  thou'lt  not  need  to  ask. 

STELLA. 

Dear  father,  I 
Dwell  on  thy  accents  breathlessly  ! 

CONRAD. 

Poor  child ! 

I  gave  up  dreaming  for  a  while  to  seek 
Food  for  my  daily  wants,  and  then  my  thoughts 
9* 


186  CONRAD   AND   STELLA. 

Were  turn'd  to  painting,  but  the  same  desire 

Still  brooded  o'er  me,  and  I  tried  to  stamp 

On  canvas  the  bright  image  that  my  heart 

Had  bodied  forth  in  Poetry.     I  came 

To  great  Stambol ;  and  I  do  mind  me  now 

Of  a  sweet  evening  as  I  walked  along, 

My  easel  and  my  painting  on  my  arm, 

That  a  bright  face,  from  a  high  balcony, 

Peer'd  on  me  like  a  star,  p.i>i  a  young  voice 

Warbled  a  song  of  mine  to  melody 

That  ravish'd  my  struck  soul.    I  stood  and  gazed, 

While  o'er  me  all  the  visions  of  my  life 

Rush'd  with  bewildering  brightness  ;  it  was  she  ! 

My  worship'd  idol,  and  thank  God !  thank  God  ! 

Her  face  was  on  my  canvas.     I  had  not 

Belie v'd  that  beauty  had  another  seeming 

From  my  conceptions,  and  my  soul  had  clung 

Like  ivy  round  that  image.     Stella  !  we 

Do  love  but  one  created  form  of  God, — 

Or  e'er  to  love  a  second  it  must  be 

The  shadow  of  that  other — dost  thou  mark  ? 

STELLA. 
I  cannot  read  thy  tale. 


CONEAD   AND   STELLA.  187 

CONRAD. 

Dear  child ! 

STELLA. 

And  this 
Is  then  that  picture  ? 

CONRAD. 

No! 

STELLA. 

But  hadst  thou  then 
That  little  book  of  Poetry  ? 

CONRAD. 

I  had. 
But  as  I  journey'd  on  I  sold  them  both. 

STELLA. 

No,  father ! 

CONRAD. 

Yes  !  to  keep  the  little  life 
I  cherish'd  but  for  her,  and  would  have  flung 
Away  like  sea- weed,  if  it  had  not  been 
I  hop'd  some  strange  fatality  might  hap, 
And  I  regain  the  painting  and,  ay  !  more, 
That  it  might  lead  to  fortune.    Stella !  thou 


188  CONRAD   AND   STELLA. 

Dost  read  already  in  my  bright'ning  glance 
The  issue  of  my  tale. 

STELLA. 

Father,  go  on  ! 

CONRAD. 

Well,  even  as  I  hop'd,  that  trifle  was 
The  "  open  sesame  "  to  my  future  life. 
Next  day  she  sent  for  me,  and  I,  poor  boy, 
Flew  gladly  there. 

STELLA. 

And  she  was  noble  ! 

CONRAD. 

She  was  f  and  I  a  starveling — but  my  heart 

Bore  itself  always  loftily — and  I 

(So  daring  were  my  aims,)  would  not  have  feared 

To  woo  an  angel  ; — but  an  angel  never 

Doted  upon  some  "  bright,  particular  star," 

That  God  had  set  beyond  him  in  the  realms 

Of  infinite  space,  with  half  the  reverence, 

Or  the  strange,  wild  desire,  that  my  fond  heart 

Hung  o'er  that  mortal  face.     Love,  my  dear  girl, 

Knows  no  distinctions,  though  a  proud  vain  world 


CONRAD   AND   STELLA.  189 

Have  plac'd  him  in  opinion ; — the  rich  lord, 
Believe  me,  on  the  straining  breast  of  her 
He  calls  his  wife,  hath  in  his  heart  imagin'd 
'Twas  some  poor  girl  he  clasp'd,  and  the  vile  serf 
Disgustingly  turns  off  from  coarse-grain'd  lips, 
To  kiss  an  angel ;  wedlock  doth  not  oft 
Couple  but  lust,  for  where  the  heart  is  not 
There  is  adultery  most  foul — dost  mark  ? 

STELLA. 

Then  thou  didst  love  that  lady  ? 

CONRAD. 

As  the  swan 

Pours  out  in  dying  his  most  luscious  note, 
So  from  my  heart  gush'd  heaven-born  sweetness  forth 
When  that  wild  vision  pass'd. 

STELLA. 

She  spurn'd  you  then  ? 

CONRAD. 

No,  no  !  but  hear  me  on.     She  bade  me  mock 
Her  image  on  the  canvas.     Oh,  my  God  ! 
How  could  I  sit  before  that  peerless  eye, 
And  with  untrembling  pencil  shadow  forth 


190  CONRAD   AND   STELLA. 

Her  beauty  on  my  easel  ? — 'twas  too  much. 
And  yet  I  undertook  it.     Day  by  day, 
I  wander'd  o'er  her  features ;  day  by  day, 
Grew  my  wild,  passion  stronger  ;  the  slight  curl 
Of  her  young,  "  girlish  lip,"  I  thought,  at  times, 
Shadow'd  contempt  for  the  poor  humble  boy, — 
And  then  my  hand  was  firmer — it  would  change, 
And  I  could  mark  upon  its  vermeil  line 
Softness  I  could  not  mimic — and  ah  !  then 
Falter'd  my  pencil ;  sometimes  the  light  threads 
Of  sunshine  that  o'erhung  her  ivory  brow 
Would  float  bewilderingly,  as  if  a  hand 
Did  toss  them  playfully,  and  then  they  lay, 
Like  golden  shadows,  still.     It  might  have  been 
A  fancy  of  the  brain,  but  always  to  my  heart 
Her  features  changed,  and  every  day  I  sat 
Some  startling  beauty  all  unseen  before 
Burst  on  my  sight.     I  know  not  if  I  gazed 
Days  few  or  many — but  'twas  done  at  last. 
There  hangs  that  painting  now. 

STELLA. 

Good  God !  go  on. 


CONRAD   AND   STELLA.  191 

CONRAD. 

She  said  the  mock  was  perfect,  and  then  brought 

My  first  dream-effort  forth,  and  bade  me  tell 

Where  I  had  seen  that  face,  it  was  so  like 

The  one  I  had  just  finished ;  as  she  gave 

The  picture  to  me  from  her  soft,  white  hand, 

And  stoop'd  to  show  me  where  my  skill  had  fail'd 

To  mimic  there  her  image,  the  gold  clasp 

That  all  too  negligently  watch'd  the  folds 

O'er  her  breast's  madd'ning  beauty,  loos'd  its  hold, 

And  'twixt  their  ravishing  glow,  that  seem'd  to  blush 

Unconsciously  at  gaze  of  man,  my  eye 

Glanced  on  a  little  volume  that  lay  there, — 

My  book  of  Poetry  ! 

STELLA. 

Oh  no,  'twas  not ! 

CONRAD. 

'Twas  even  so,  my  child,  but  I  spake  not  ; 
Lest  she  should  spurn  me  that  my  wanton  gaze 
Had  dar'd  to  fall  on  loveliness  so  bright, 
And  unbeheld  before.     Her  hair  crept  round 
My  burning  temples  like  the  invisible  wind 
All  spiritually,  and  I  could  feel 


192  CONRAD   AND   STELLA. 

Stealing  from  out  the  palace  of  her  soul 

Breath  that  seem'd  like  a  thought,  it  was  so  pure. 

I  could  not  break  the  spell,  and  as  I  told 

Of  all  the  glorious  visions  that  had  swung 

In  dreams  around  me,  and  that  vainly  I 

Assay'd  the  harp  to  give  embodiment 

To  my  soul's  ideal,  and  failing  here, 

In  desperation  on  the  canvas  flung 

The  shadow  of  my  heart ;  and  that  my  eyes 

Had  never  rested  on  the  form  my  soul 

Had  wedded,  and  would  only  wed,  until 

Chance  threw  me  in  her  presence ;  she  seem'd  sad, 

And  rose  as  she  would  go, — came  back  again, 

And  sat  beside  me,  and  with  trembling  voice 

Spake  something  that  I  could  not  understand, 

About  a  palfrey,  and  a  fav'rite  bird, 

As  she  had  lost  them  ;  till  a  flush  had  sprung 

Up  to  her  lashes,  and  a  tear  that  stole 

From  her  full  eye  was  burnt  up  by  the  heat 

Of  her  cheek  instantly,  and  then  she  ask'd 

My  former  history,  which  being  told, 

She  spurn'd  me  not,  but  bade  me  have  high  hopes, 

And 


CONRAD  AND  STELLA.  193 

STELLA. 

She  promis'd  not  to  wed  thee  ? 

CONRAD. 

Even  so. 

STELLA. 

Oh,  father*! 

CONRAD. 

And  ay,  more  !  she  flung  a  purse 
Of  golden  dust  before  me — bade  me  strive 
For  that  which  men  call  Fame — toil — sweat— endure. 

STELLA. 
And  didst  thou  ? 

CONRAD. 

Ay! 

STELLA. 

And  fail'd  ? 

CONRAD. 

What  human  breast 
Determin'd  ever,  and  accomplish'd  not  ? 
Whate'er  we  sow  we  reap ;  my  name  was  heard 
O'er  half  of  Europe. 


194  CONRAD   AND   STELLA. 

STELLA. 

Then  thou  sought'st  her  hand  ? 

CONRAD. 

The  worm  had  claim'd  it  for  his  own  before ! 
I  tell  thee— it  was  ashes ! 

• 

STELLA. 

Horrible ! 
But  doth  thy  tale  end  here  ? 

CONRAD. 

Stella,  my  heart 

Leads  on  too  hastily — we  must  go  back. 
I  stood  upon  the  balcony,  where  first 
Glitter 'd  her  eye  upon  me.     The  still  eve 
Was  broken  only  by  the  Muezzin's  call 
To  rites  unholy ;  o'er  the  city  hung 
The  white  wing  of  th'  Almighty — studded  thick 
With  sparkling  brilliants— on  the  waters  lay 
Their  shadows  quiveringly,  the  spicy  air 
Droop'd  with  its  own  perfume,  and  all  the  East 
Panted  with  love,  like  a  pure  maiden's  breast, 
Ere  it  is  stilled  in  slumber.     I  do  mind 
How  drunk  my  soul  that  scene — 'twas  but  a  moon 


CONRAD   AND   STELLA.  195 

Since  I  had  seen  Stambol — the  dazzling  glow 

Of  tower  and  dome,  and  the  Turk's  crescent  dwelt 

On  me  in  its  first  freshness.     I  had  come 

A  Christian  wanderer  to  the  Prophet's  home, 

Nameless,  and  friendless,  daring  want  and  scorn, 

And  now  a  moon — a  little  moon  had  pass'd 

And  not  an  Houri  in  the  Sultan's  Harem 

Shot  on  her  lord-love  more  ineffable 

Than  fell  round  me.    The  "  cunning  curse"  that  hung 

Above  my  spirit  had  been  all  fulfill'd, 

And  Zela  spurn'd  me  not — oh  God !  I  said 

She  bade  me  seek  for  fame — but  it  was  not 

That  I  might  claim  her  heart — 'twas  mine,  'twas  mine, 

Already  mine,  but  that  the  envious  tongue 

Of  an  accursed  relative  might  cleave 

To  his  foul  mouth,  she  asked  it.     He  had  wooed 

And  madly  claim'd  her  hand. 

STELLA. 

What  didst  thou  then  ? 
As  doeth  the  mock'd  lion  for  his  mate  ; 
Destroy  !  oh !  horrible. 

CONRAD. 

I  did  not, — that 
Were  foul,  in  sooth,  thou  knowest  our  creed 


196  CONRAD   AND   STELLA. 

That  I  have  taught  thee,  when  I  bade  thee  say 

Thine  orisons  to  God  ;  "  As  we  forgive, 

So,  Father,  forgive  us."     Love  works  no  ill, 

And  it  cannot  be  love  that  foully  asks 

For  blood,  no !  no  !  let  the  mad  followers 

Of  the  Turk's  Pagod  thirst  for  it,  we  know 

One  remedy  for  ills — I  shrunk  from  blood. 

STELLA. 

Had  she  been  noble  too,  as  well  as  fair, 
She  then  had  been  my  mother. 

CONRAD. 

Hush  !  dear  girl, 
Thou  know'st  not  whom  thou  chidest. 

STELLA. 

Didst  thou  not, 

Oh  horrible !  mean  she  had  died  when  now 
Thou  saidst  her  hand  was  ashes  ? 

CONRAD. 

Ah! 

STELLA. 

Oh,  God! 


CONRAD   AND   STELLA.  197 

CONRAD. 

Bear  yet  a  little  longer  ;  thou  hast  guess'd 
The  end  too  truly.     I  did  mean  she  died. 

STELLA. 

Thou,  dear  father, — thou  didst  not  insult 
Such  stainless  beauty  ? 

CONRAD. 

Stella,  I  did  ne'er 

Press  that  fair  bosom  ;  the  life  blood 
That  gives  thy  cheek  its  envious  fullness  finds 
Its  parent  lake  in  other  breast  than  mine. 

STELLA. 

Oh,  this  is  terrible  !  what  meanest  thou  ? 
I  am  undone  forever ! 

CONRAD. 

No  !  but  hear  me  through. 
Thou'st  but  to  look  upon  that  picture  now 
To  know  she  was  thy  mother. 

STELLA. 

Conrad,  speak  ! 
My  heart-life  trembles  on  thy  coming  words ! 


198  CONRAD   AND   STELLA. 

CONRAD. 

I  said  we  stood  together  on  that  eve 

Upon  the  balcony — a  form  went  by 

As  she  return'd  the  pressure  of  my  lips 

And  bade  "  the  Lord  be  with  you,"  "  Cursed  knave, 

That  mock'st  the  Prophet  at  this  holy  hour, 

Thy  life  shall  be  the  forfeit," — 'twas  his  voice 

Who  oft  had  whisper'd  in  her  ear  the  words 

Of  false  affection — struck,  I  fell,  and  woke 

A  bleeding  outcast  at  the  city  gate. 

STELLA. 
Thou  saw'st  her  then  no  more  ? 

CONRAD. 

Yes,  after  years. 

STELLA. 

What  then  ? 

CONRAD. 

Well,  I  had  toiled,  and  Fame 
Enwreath'd  my  youthful  brow,  my  paintings  stood 
Beside  the  works  of  Raphael. 

STELLA. 

Didst  thou 
Still  think  of  Zela  ? 


CONRAD   AND   STELt-A.  199 

CONRAD. 

Never  for  an  hour 

Had  she  not  been  beside  me.  Earth  to  me 
Had  ever  held  one  look,  one  face,  one  eye, 
I  never  loved  aught  else.  Ever  had  clung 
One  image  round  my  soul. 

STELLA. 

Well,  and  what  more  ? 

CONRAD. 
Is't  not  enough  ? 

STELLA. 

Conrad  ! 

CONRAD. 

Forgive. — 

Three  years  had  pass'd,  and  once  again  I  stood 
Upon  that  balcony.     Zela  was  there  ! 
Below  us,  mumbling  in  the  city  streets, 
Dogs  fed  on  human  bodies,  a  dire  plague 
Had  slain  its  thousands — funerals  were  not ; 
The  ragged  sails  hung  dangling  round  the  masts, 
Fill'd  with  infection,  and  the  water  lay 
Stupid,  and  green,  and  waveless — all  was  death ! 


200  CONRAD   AND   STELLA. 

I  watch'd  alone  o'er  Zela — save  her  child 
The  pledge  of  ravishment,  alone  she  breath'd 
Of  friends,  or  ravisher ;  I  loath'd  her  not, 
Though  she  was  dying — and  I  watch'd  the  plague 
Blotting  her  holy  beauty.     God  !  I  pray'd, 
Till  the  last  life-spark  fled. 

STELLA. 

I  now  know  all  ? 

CONRAD. 

Thou  dost. 

STELLA. 

Oh,  Heaven  !  and  thou  couldst  keep  the  fruit 
Of  love  thou  never  tastedst  ? 

CONRAD. 

Ay !  to  taste. 

STELLA. 

Conrad  !  what  meanest  thou  ? 

CONRAD. 

Does  the  snake  sting 
After  all  this  ?  thy  mother's  face  is  thine. 

STELLA. 

And  her  heart  too— dear  husband — mine — oh,  God  ! 


THE    DYING    POET    TO    HIS    WIFE. 


GOD  be  with  thee,  my  beloved  !   God  be  with  thee  in  this 

drear, 

Dark  world  that  I  am  leaving  without  a  sigh  or  tear, — 
Only  that  I  tremble  for  thee,  my  beautiful  !  my  brave ! 
When  the  tongue  that  is  thy  life-guard  shall  be  silent  in 

the  grave  ; 

Yet  a  dream  flits  o'er  my  spirit  that  more  radiant  and  fair, 
Thou  wilt  meet  me  up  in  Heaven  where  the  other  angels 

are, 

Though  how  thou  canst  be  fairer  I  do  not,  do  not  know — 
God  be  with  thee,  my  beloved !  God  be  with  thee  when 

I  go. 

Ay,  press  thy  lip  yet  closer,  lay  thy  hand  upon  my  brow ! 

Let  the  argent  of  thy  bosom  gleam  on  my  dull  eye  now  ; 

10 


202  THE   DYING   POET   TO   HIS   WIFE. 

Speak  the  words  thou  oft  hast  spoken,  sing  the  songs  thou 

oft  hast  sung, 
They  will  quiver  o'er  my  trembling  heart  though  its 

chords  be  all  unstrung. 
Ah,  the  fire  that  lights  the  Poet's  eye  full  often  leads 

astray ! 

His  lip  of  honied  sweetness  is  a  lip  of  common  clay  ; 
'Tis  that  thou  loved  such  worthlessness  my  own  heart 

breaketh  so— 
God  be  with  thee,  my  beloved !  God  be  with  thee  when 

I  go- 

Oh,  could  I— could  I  leave  thee  my  lip's  defying  curl  ! 
Thy  smile  is  all  too  fair  for  this  cold-hearted  world,  my 

girl,— 
My  brave  one  !  oh,  my  beautiful !  'twill  taunt  thee  with 

my  shame, 
I  would,  as  I  have  hurl'd  it  back,  that  thou  couldst  do 

the  same, — 
Breathe  thy  prayers  up  to  the  Heaven — breathe  them  up 

and  up  again, 
Till  they  break  like  rattling  thunder  round  the  damned 

race  of  men. — 


THE   DYING   POET   TO   HIS   WIFE.  203 

There  is  ONE  who  hears  his  children  though  their  words, 

like  thine,  be  low — 
God  will  hear  thee,  my  beloved  !  God  will  hear  thee  when 

I  go. 

The  wheel  will  soon  be  broken,  and  the  golden  sands 

be  run, 
Yet  pledge  me — pledge  me  this,  beloved  !  ere  I  go  beyond 

the  sun — 
Thou  wilt  live  forever  faithful  to  our  solemn  hearts'  troth. 

plight, 

I  cannot  bear  another's  form  shall  press  thy  bosom  bright ; 
I  shall  wait  in  yonder  heaven  for  the  tinkling  of  thy  wings, 
When  thou  comest  up  all  glorious  beside  the  King  of 

kings — 
Where  our  hearts  shall  ever  mingle,  and  our  tears  shall 

never  flow — 
God  be  with  thee,  my  beloved!  God  be  with  thee  when  I  go. 

Leave  me,  leave  me,  now,  beloved  !  haste  thee,  haste  thee 

through  the  door  ! 
There's  a  dark  hand  draws  my  curtain,  there's  a  strange 

foot  on  my  floor  ! 


204  THE   DYING    POET   TO   HIS   WIFE. 

Are  these  angels'  wings  around  me — these  their  soft  lips 

that  I  feel  ? 

Are  these  sweet  tones  hallelujahs  for  a  dying  Poet's  weal  ? 
Ay,  thou  art  very  faithful — faithful  even  to  the  death ! 
Closer — closer  then  embrace  me,  while  I  give  thee  up  my 

breath ; — 
Strike!  if  thou  wishest,  Shadow — 'tis  enough  for  me  to 

know, 
God  will  be  with  my  beloved — he  will  keep  her  when 

I  go. 

1846. 


THE    STARS. 


BURNING  in  hues  of  quenchless  light, 
Fair  jewels  in  night's  azure  crown ; 

How  soft  from  your  empyreal  height 
Ye  shed  your  silvery  music  down ! 

How  calm !  methinks  that  hill  and  plain 
Are  hush'd  to  drink  the  breathing  joy, 

Joy  that  your  souls  cannot  contain, 
Blest  gazers  into  heaven's  employ ! 

How  must  the  heart  of  Eden  burst 
With  rapture,  as  your  voices  rang 

In  choral  symphony,  when  first 
The  infant  world  in  being  sprang  ! 

When  o'er  the  pure,  primeval  earth, 

Heaven's  deep  acclaim  was  heard  with  thine, 

And  the  first  living  soul  came  forth 
To  hail  the  wak'ning  shout  of  Time ! 


206  THE   STABS. 

And  still  ye  shine — years  have  no  power 
Upon  your  brows  their  change  to  set, 

As  bright  as  at  Creation's  hour 

Your  burning  splendors  kindle  yet. 

Still  look  your  glorious  company  down, 
When  night  unbars  heaven's  golden  door, 

Still,  though  mad  storms  the  blue  sky  drown, 
¥"e  sweetly  shine  when  storms  are  o'er. 

What  marvel  ancient  sages  burn'd 
In  your  bright  hues  their  fate  to  trace  ? 

What  marvel  the  old  Sabian  turn'd 
His  eyes  in  worship  on  your  face  ? 

Had  I  thy  wings,  oh,  tireless  dove ! 

How  would  my  spirit  flee  for  rest 
To  some  bright  sphere  of  light  and  love 

That  burns  on  yon  Empyrean's  breast ! 

1846. 


FREE     TRANSLATION: 

HOR.   Lib.   in.   C.  26. 

"VIXI   PTTELLIS   NUPER   IDONETTS." 


I  HAVE  lived  for  the  girls — there  is  truth  in  my  story, 
And  I  think  that  I've  battled  with  somewhat  of  glory, 
But  the  arms  that  I  once  used,  I've  hung  on  the  wall, 
And  I'll  hang  there  myself,  ere  I'll  touch  them  at  all. 

My  first  love  was  Emily — my  second  was  Sophy, 
I've  a  sweet  lock  of  hair  from  them  both  as  a  trophy, 
Though  I  own  I  cropp'd  one  from  my  own  pate  to  please  a 
Strange  taste  in  my  third,  the  bewitching  Louisa. 

Oh !  days  of  my  childhood,  of  "  bread  and  of  butter," 
When  my  sense  was  a  bubble,  my  heart  was  a  flutter, 
Why  should  I  mourn  for  ye,  since  Julia  Jane 
The  last  of  my  loves,  now  despises  my  chain  ? 

1844. 


THREE    LIVING    LINKS, 


"  They  are  only  three." 

THREE  living  links — three  living  links 

Are  all  that  now  remain 
Of  what  we  once  so  fondly  call'd 

Our  dear,  dear  family  chain ! 
And  in  the  gracious  Providence, 

That  e'er  hath  watch'd  them  o'er, 
Far  from  the  scenes  of  other  days, 

These  three  are  met  once  more. 


Three  living  links  !  I  dare  not  chide 
The  love  that  took  the  rest 

From  care  and  sorrow  here,  to  lie 
Upon  His  holy  breast. — 


THREE    LIVING   LINKS.  209 

Ah,  no  !  I  think  my  heart  would  bear 

The  long,  dark  way  to  tread, 
Sooner  than  call  one  angel  back, 

That  to  its  home  hath  fled. 


Three  living  links  !  and  one  doth  now 

Weep  with  us  joyous  tears, 
Who  comes  back  to  our  yearning  hearts, 

The  long  desired  of  years. 
His  brow,  perchance,  is  shaded  more 

Than  ours,  with  thronging  cares, 
And  none  may  better  tell  than  we, 

What  mean  those  silver  hairs. 


Oh  !  beautiful  is  the  holy  hill 

Wliereon  another  stands, 
The  dew  of  Hermon  on  his  lips, 

The  peace-branch  in  his  hands. 
God  stay  thee,  brother,  in  thy  work, 

God  shield  thee  evermore — 
And  give  of  souls  thy  guerdon  vast, 

When  toils  and  cares  are  o'er. 


210  THREE    LIVING   LINKS. 

One  other  link  fills  up  the  chain, — 

One  little  known  to  Fame, 
And  yet  above  some  st'range-wove  songs 

Ye  may  have  seen  his  name, 
For  he  hath  tried  all  artlessly 

To  sound  more  wide  abroad 
The  music  that  his  heart-strings  play'd, 

Beneath  the  touch  of  God. 


The  others  oft  upon  his  face 

With  earnest  gazes  dwell, 
I  think  he's  more  within  their  thoughts 

Than  they  would  care  to  tell ; 
I  think,  [and  it  may  all  be  true,] 

They  fear  a  flood  of  tears 
Will  o'er  his  proud  soul's  fall  be  shed 

In  the  succeeding  years. 


God,  do  Thou  make  his  shoes  of  brass 

To  tread  life's  flinty  road, 
Sweeten  his  bread  at  every  Inn, 

And  bear  Thou  up  his  load ; 


THREE    LIVING   LINKS.  211 

For  he  must  struggle  much,  and  put 

His  kindest  thoughts  away, 
He  cannot  stoop  to  Mammon-Love, 

Like  other  things  of  clay. 

And  well  I  ween  a  weariness 

Of  all  beneath  the  sun 
Hath  fallen  in  his  youth  of  years 

Upon  this  self-same  one  ; 
So  much  the  more  then,  Father,  make 

His  spirit  fit  for  Thee, 
Since  with  thy  creatures  here  on  Earth 

No  fellowship  hath  he. 

Three  living  links — three  living  links 

Are  all  that  now  remain 
Of  what  we  once  so  fondly  call'd 

Our  dear,  dear  family  chain  ! 
The  dust  of  death  is  on  the  rest, 

Their  hues  have  faded  fast, 
But  so  God  keep  the  youngest  one, 

'Twill  join  in  Heaven,  at  last. 

1847. 


THESE    LITTLE    SONGS. 


"  And  give  the  worm  my  little  store, 
When  the  last  reader  reads  no  more." 

;  O.  W.  HOLMES. 


THESE  little  songs  that  I  have  sung 

Are  very  dear  to  me, — 
I'm  fain  to  think,  my  gracious  friend, 

That  they  were  dear  to  thee ; 
You've  ne'er  forgot  how  blest  we  sat 

Beneath  the  list'ning  trees, 
While  I  was  reading  on  your  face, 

And  you  were  reading  these. 

Or,  how,  upon  the  self-same  page 
We  bent  with  earnest  look  ; 

Our  heads  full  closely  met  above, 
Our  hands  beneath  the  book ; — 


THESE    LITTLE   SONGS.  213 

Oh,  rapturous  hours !  oh,  golden  time  ! 

What  joy  their  mem'ry  weaves, — 
Our  hearts  read  on  although  the  breeze 

Kept  flutt'ring  o'er  the  leaves. 


Oh,  golden  time !  but  I  have  learn'd 

The  Poet's  dower  since  then, 
To  bear  a  keenly  tortur'd  soul 

Among  unfeeling  men. 
I  sit  beneath  God's  silent  night, 

None  hear  the  words  I  say, 
And  bear  this  everlasting  flame, 

That  drinks  my  life  away. 

I've  struggled  long, — I've  struggled  hard,- 

I've  eat  the  bread  of  care, 
I've  wrung  my  heart  out  for  these  songs, 

My  lot  is  hard  to  bear, — 
'Tis  oh !  but  to  be  dreaming  on — 

'Tis  oh  !  to  vainly  pine 
For  blessedness  in  days  to  come, 

I  knew  in  days  "  lang  syne." 


214  THESE   LITTLE   SONGS. 

I  turn  my  book  of  Poems  o'er, 

My  eyes  fill  up  with  tears, 
How  shall  I  dare  to  give  the  world 

These  buds  of  early  years  ! 
I  feel  e'en  now  its  blast  of  scorn 

Uprooting  all  my  breast, 
As  when  a  whirlwind  demon  tramps 

The  great  woods  of  the  West. 


Dear  heart !  sit  by  me,  in  my  need, 

Speak  but  of  what  I've  been, 
I  fear  me  I  shall  yet  be  left 

To  tread  the  paths  of  sin. 
Oh  !  lay  your  hand  once  more  on  mine, 

And  say  'twill  not  be  so, 
That  he  who  sang  such  precious  words, 

Can  never  stoop  so  low. 


I  may  not  tell  e'en  thee  what  change 
Hath  o'er  my  spirit  pass'd, 

Since  you  and  I, — two  happy  souls, 
Read  my  strange  verses  last, — 


THESE   LITTLE   SONGS.  215 

Oh  !  I  was  dreaming  wildly  then 

Of  what  might  never  be, — 
It  breaks  my  heart ! — the  very  thought 

They  may  be  naught  to  thee. 

Ah,  me  !  there's  nothing  left  me  now 

But  wrecks  of  idle  dreams, 
My  thoughts  float  on,  like  shatter'd  barks, 

Adown  the  silent  streams, 
My  heart  is  woe  for  youth  and  thee, 

For  joys  forever  flown ; — 
I'll  write  no  more, — I  have  no  power 

To  read  my  songs  alone. 
1847. 


SONNET.  — L' ENVOI. 

TO  THE  EEV.  J.  M.  A. 


DEAR  brother !  if  thy  love  left  room  for  aught, — 

Then,  by  thy  solemn  office,  would  I  plead, — 
Search,  if  some  line  be  not  to  beauty  wrought, 

Winnow  all  well,  lest  thou  lose  some  good  seed. 
I  know  how  slightingly  the  world  esteem 

"  New  Poems,  by  young  Poets,"  therefore  I 
Commend  these  fancies  of  my  youthful  dream 

To  thee,  to  view  in  all  sincerity. 
I  feel  most  impotent ; — yet,  if  desire, 

And  earnest  faith  have  prompted  to  this  deed, 
If  only  I  fail  not,  but  still  aspire, 

I  shall  have  comfort  in  my  sorest  need ; — 
There  is  who,  from  the  Triumphs  "  soft  and  low," 
Will  whisper  to  me,  "  Son  !  arise  and  go." 

NEW- YORK,  Sept.  9,  1847. 


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